


The Seventh White Star

by wonderlandiana



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:42:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24470758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderlandiana/pseuds/wonderlandiana
Summary: “Seven gems of pure starlight.”
Relationships: Thranduil (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 81





	1. I am Relle

In the distant city of Rohandor of the Third Age our village is at the edge of a drastic political change. War and disease proliferate in the neighboring kingdom, and my natural inclination to do good is severely tested by my father's commercial interests, my brother's political reprisals and my mother's natural anxious love.

In our warm living room of Villa Thorneye reigns absolute silence.

As always, in order not to bore my mother with my inappropriate femininity in a moment of crisis like this, I wear a white cap over my too long raven hair. I can't hide my green eyes or my features though. I had inherited my father's nonexistent beauty and unripe colors. Fergus had my black hair and our mother's sky-blue eyes.

"Relle, dear..." My mother Greta is thinner than I am, meagre and very pale in the light of the fireplace; I'm giving her more concerns, with my desire to reach the neighboring kingdom to help those poor souls to survive. "...Don't you think it's a little too dangerous? I mean, there will be elves to patrol the borders of the kingdom... What if they catch you?"

I respond calmly, measuring words and modulating the tone of my voice; a non-nothing would be enough to make her lose her temper and the willingness to listen.

"Mother, I know perfectly well what the stakes are. I'm not afraid. The people of Mord-Een are starving. They need our aid."

Fergus, standing by the fireplace, gives me a scornful look and a mocking smile. "Which means _sweet Quentin_ needs your aid."

I purse my lips, glaring at him. He knows that he mustn't bring up my feelings in this way, and that to name Quentin Frobisher, my best friend and the boy I grew up with until his parents had moved for economic needs to the neighboring kingdom, the man for whom I harbor a secret love, can prove to be hazardous in this house.

Greta opens wide her already watering eyes. "What?" She squeaks in her high-pitched voice. "That's why you're doing it? To help that poor simpleton?!"

Anger makes me blush. I clench my fists on my legs, trying to pretend I didn’t hear those hars words. I know my cheeks are red, but I also know they can pass for a natural reaction to heat. I am not allowed to have disproportionate reactions in her presence.

"Please don't call him that. He's a good man. He teaches women and children to read and write." "As if it were needed!" She comments sharply. "A woman must know to do only two things in life: be a mother and take care of the house. You certainly don't need to know how to read, let alone write."

I lift my chin. "I can both read and write."

She glares at me with her small blue eyes over the long nose and the thin curled lips. "Just because that miserable father of yours thought it was a good idea to let you learn something, in case you didn't get married! And he was right! Look at you, you're twenty-one years old and you're still a spinster! Without husband or suitors! A disaster for our family!" 

I sigh because I know she's about to start with the same old monologue about getting married, have children and build a future for the dynasty of our family - once feared Thorneye - now fallen out of favor after the seven brothers had shared the patrimony of their father, son of the Duke of Rohandor, and they had all been rediscovered themselves sterile except, for who knows what fortuitous godsend, my father.

"Your peers have been married for years, you little wretch! They already have children! They made their poor old mothers grandmothers! And what about you?" She starts cleaning the table, as she always does when she's angry. In this case, for my pathetic lack of love life and my hermetic closure towards marriage. "You only care about sick strangers, you take care of them, bring them food... you waste your time, in short! All you do is act as a good Samaritan without gaining anything in return! How do you contribute to the well-being of our family, eh? The answer is simple, you don't! You don't cook, you don't clean... the only thing you do is take care of the garden, who knows why. You care more about plants than about us, flesh of your flesh!"

I snort silently, with my lips closed. It's not over yet.

"Look at your brother! Look at him, Relle! Fergus makes me so proud with his commitment to building new houses for our kingdom, and for the poor agriculture of a ruined city!" Passing by, she touches his arm with her thin hand. Then her furious eyes return to me. "While you... you do nothing!"

Walther, my father, robust and with white hair shot in all directions, raises his watery eyes from the book he's reading to give my mother a disapproving look. He's usually a patient man, a writer who loves knowledge, but since my mother has become too old to have other children, and consequently more sour, he can barely enjoy his well-deserved peace after so many years of work and services rendered to our community.

"Stop with your rantings, Greta," he blurts out, and my mother hushes up with a shocked face. “Relle is my daughter too, and I say she can do whatever she wants. As long as she's careful."

I can't hold back a smile. "I have already inquired, father! Elves allow tanks with provisions to enter the kingdom briefly and under surveillance. I'll be safe with Galen and Azure. One more member on the wagon will not give them cause for alarm."

"If so, then... Galen and Azure?" My father ponders for a moment. "They're good people. Inseparable spouses. I have never seen a couple so united in my life." He glances at my mother, who quickly looks away. "You will be safe with them."

Fergus speaks with his eyes fixed on the fire. “The few inhabitants who survived the battle to defend the walls will move in two moons. Their kingdom will be scorched earth."

Walther blinks with concern. "How many are left?"

"Not more than a hundred," says my brother. "Mostly women, elders and children."

I shudder. Before, the inhabitants were more than a thousand, and now... The elves know no mercy. And all for a few white gems trapped in the caves below the city. What a waste. What a tragedy.

Fergus clenches his jaw. "I will head the negotiations together with the Mayor, to accommodate as many survivors as we are physically able to bring here."

My father nods, a light in the eyes. "I am proud of you, my son."

I don't know how to interpret my brother's expression. He seems much more than angry: injured, in that dangerous way in which wild animals can be injured. I understand. It is never easy to bear the loss of a friendly people, especially when one is close to suffer the same fate. In fact, from what was rumored around, the next kingdom of conquest by the elves would have been ours.

However, I doubted it. Our city did not keep precious treasures, it was a common remote self- taught village, so why should it be of any interest to them?

I turn to my mother once more. "Father gave me permission to go. I don't want to leave with the anguish of knowing that you don't approve. Please give me your blessing." I know I'm asking a lot. She never made a secret of her aversion to unsuccessful generosity and gratuitous good. She married my father for love, but also in exchange for the promise of a roof over their heads and a couple of brats to raise. My father hid his sterility from his wife and shortly after the wedding, when he finally decided to tell her the truth, she got pregnant. No doubt about paternity: Fergus was our father's young mirror.

They always told us that story with great emotion. We were a living double miracle, in flesh and blood.

Walther stares at my mother with intensity.

Greta mumbles something intelligible under her breath, beneath the watchful gaze of my father and the distracted look of my brother.

She comes over and clasps her hands on my thin shoulders. She presses me to follow her movement and get up. Then she hugs me.

Relieved, I sink my face into the hollow of her neck. She smells of warm bread and butter.

She bring her lips to my ear. "You go over there at your own risk. When you come back, _if_ you come back, you will marry the first suitor that in your weeks of absence I will be able to find. If you won't accept his proposal, I will send you straight again to that hell of fire and dust, along with your poor friends and those cold-blooded murderers of the elves. Did I make myself clear? Nod once, if you understand."

I freeze. And I nod once.

"Very well." She takes a step back, giving me a warm smile that confuses me. She pretends for my father, I know that side of her: the mean and calculating side... and in spite of this I still love her. You don't stop loving your family just because they consider you a burden. "Then we'll see you soon, my sweetheart." She walks away, heading to the kitchen.

I lower my eyes to hide the tears. They dry between my eyelashes.

When I look up again, I see my father in front of me. His broad and slightly flabby face, full of color, brightens up with an affectionate smile. A genuine smile.

"Promise me you'll be careful, Relle," he says. "I promise."

He hugs me tight. "Losing you would break my heart."

I nod slowly. "I know the danger is real, father. I'll be careful." "I love you."

"I love you too."

He kisses me on the hair, then follows my mother into the kitchen.

My brother is less inclined to physical contacts, he always has been. He just leans towards me, hugging me with his expressive blue eyes.

"Do you want me to accompany you to Galen tomorrow morning?" He asks, but I know that sacrifice is hidden behind the offer. He has no time to waste with me. His work for the benefit of our community is much more important.

I shake my head with a sad smile. "I'll leave at dawn. I don't want you to get tired, you already have so much things to do on your own." I squeeze his shoulder with one hand. “Promise me you will do everything you can to build more shelters for Mord-Een's survivors. There are many, Fergus, and our volunteers are so few..."

His tense face shows all his understandable affliction. “I'm doing it, Rellél. I'm really doing everything I can."

He used my full name, a habit I only allow to him. "It's all I ask."

He smiles too. "Good luck." Without any other unnecessary fusses, he hurries to his rooms.

I walk up to the fireplace. The last one still up is in charge of putting out the fire and tidying the room. My mother has already dealt with that, neurotic as always and obsessed with cleaning.

Despite the years spent in repressing my true nature, I will miss Thorneye. I will miss my sweet father, my imperfect mother, my kind and courageous brother... _But I have to go._ I studied for years, far from Greta's witty and suspicious eyes, the medical treatment of men. I know how to treat the sick and I can offer them fresh supplies, understanding and empathy. My heart is open to that experience, however dangerous it may be.

Everyone knows the coldness of the elves: they are ruthless, extraordinarily obedient, lethal and unscrupulous. They may appear hospitable if their King is interested in any kind of proposal or offer, but they can change their intentions in the blink of an eye, transforming an outstretched hand into the tip of an arrow or a knife.

So yes, I know my mission is hazardous, but I feel I have no choice. In their place, I would desperately hope for someone to help me, help my family and my friends.

"I'm ready," I say aloud, to myself.

I take a bucket of ash from the sack in the corner and throw it on the bright flames. The light goes out instantly and the room falls into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers!
> 
> First things first: English is not my native language, so please, be kind enough to focus on the content, on the plot, and enjoy the story! I will edit as soon as I can!  
> Mord-Een, Thorneye Manor and some other places mentioned here are not real, they are imaginary and totally original.
> 
> P. S. If any reader’s Italian or can read Italian, please read also the version Le Sette Sorelle Bianche. My vocabulary is a bit limited in English, but I’ll work hard to improve!
> 
> P. P. S. Since my Fanfictions will be mostly, if not exclusively, about books, manga & anime, I’m interested in translating my stories into other languages such as Japanese, Spanish and French. Please, contact me if you like my stories and are interested!


	2. Departure

Dawn is cold. The colors that paint the horizon, instead of depressing me as when I was a child, fill me with joy and expectation: purple, yellow, red and orange varnish the sky all around the rising sun behind the high northern mountains. It will certainly be a beautiful day.

I wore my best dress, even if a little old, unstitched and anonymous: a comfy and practical brown gown, nice and warm, complete with a blue cape and a white cap (my hair’s too long, I would feel uncomfortable having it loose on my shoulders).

The city is awakening. The first farmers, the first fishermen and the first breeders roam the green meadows and the many roads of discolored brownish bricks, ready to start their long and tiring day. They all look at me a little surprised, because normally at that time of the morning women rest in their beds, or are busy with preparing hearty breakfasts for their children and husbands.

The young married women of my age are far too many, in my opinion. I ignore them, as far as I can, and keep going on my way.

Galen and Azure live on the edge of the city, in Rohandor’s only yellow autumn heath, in a small wood and hay hut. They have a horse, a few cows and a couple of chickens. They live on what nature gives them, without consuming meat or fish, since they find the thought of feeding on other living beings highly unfair. I was twelve when I took their example, categorically refusing to eat any type of meat, living on fruit and vegetables. I’d made my poor mother go insane.

“Hello, Flirr,” I greet their beautiful brown horse, thick white mane and extraordinary intelligent dark eyes. “I brought you a nice red apple.” I take it out of the basket I have with me, hovering my bag on my left shoulder, and I offer it to him with my palm open.

Flirr sniffs it for a moment, then he grabs it with his teeth and happily swallows it.

I walk back on the grass and gravel alleway. Once in front of the small thin wooden door, I knock.

Azure comes to open the door with a radiant smile on her full lips. “Good morning, Relle. We were waiting for you. Have you had breakfast yet?” Her curly raven hair is tightened in a bun on the nape of her neck; her black eyes shine like two stars; her dew-colored smooth skin is slightly more rosy on the high cheekbones. She’s very beautiful indeed, and more than a peasant she looks like a princess disguised as a mendicant.

“No, I haven’t,” I reply, entering the huge living room. Kitchen, living room and dining room are all hooked together, each one attached to the other. The only two separate rooms are the bedroom and the bathroom.

Azure closes the door behind us. “Perfect. I’ve just baked a couple of loaves and the eggs are warm. Would you like to join us?”

“Sure,” I reply gratefully. “You’re very kind, Azure.”

She precedes me in the tiny dining room. “I must be, dear Relle. You’re like a daughter to us. We’ve known since you were a baby!” She takes out a yellow jar from a cabinet in the upper right corner. “I managed to collect some honey last week. I know you like it.”

I feel my eyes shine and my stomach growl. “I love honey!” I take a generous spoonful. “Where’s Galen?” I ask as she passes me a hot loaf of bread and a plate of steaming eggs.

“Oh, he’s still getting ready. Last night he stayed up late to put the wagon and the sacks of wheat in order. Fortunately, we’ve managed to gather enough supplies to support the inhabitants of Mord- Een for another month.” She prepares another dish full of eggs for Galen. Her expression is stern. “Besides us and you, Relle, there are no other volunteers. The citizens of Rohandor consider Mord- Een already lost.”

I feel a wrinkle of tension forming between my eyebrows. “No kingdom is lost as long as there is still someone willing to fight for it.”

Azure smiles. “You really are a dear girl. You have such a pure heart. Be sure to never lose it.”

I nod my head down, though I’m not sure what that means. Shouldn’t a pure heart be one that has the freedom to choose and choose the good, always? I’ve never had any opportunity to choose for myself. The few decisions that I had made on my own, I had extracted them from my mother through the policy of “one thing to you, one thing to me”. I never thought my heart was pure. My heart is just... unripe.

Azure looks up and lights up with another bright smile. “Oh, someone’s woken up.”

Galen enters the room with a stiff, tired step. He’s wearing simple, comfortable clothes. His curly black hair, cut very short, makes the skin of his hollow face even paler, like the dark beard and brown eyes. He gives her a short, attentive look, then he glanced at me and gives a hint of a smile. Galen is not a very expansive man.

“Good morning,” he says, sitting down at the table. “Something smells good.”

Azure serves his portion and sits down with us. “Eggs and loaves, your favorite.”

“Absolutely,” he confirms, taking a bite of boiling eggs. “Good morning, Relle.”

“Good morning, Galen.”

“Have you brought everything you need with you? Clothes, candles, medicines?” He’s a practical man who goes straight to the point quite openly. I appreciated it for this.

I nod. “Yes. I found some herbs downstream, but I can gather the ones I need in Mord-Een.” “If anything has survived,” he mutters in a low voice.

Azure frowns. “Elves are very devoted to nature. They would never hurt it in any way, not even to prevent the enemies from healing or feeding. We’ll have access to everything we need, rest assured.”

Galen gives me a curious look from under his long black eyelashes.

I blush. I’m not used to being looked at, not even by the man who, in all respects, is like a second father to me.

“Are you coming dressed like that?” He says, pointing to my long, heavy dress.

Now my face’s on fire.

Azure opens her eyes and mouth wide. “Galen!”

Galen gasps and hurries to explain: “No, no, I didn’t mean... It’s just that the trip will last half a day, we’ll have to let Flirr rest, and we need maximum comfort. That’s what I meant. Don’t you have a pantsuit or something?”

Like I said, I’m not used to people noticing my femininity. It never happend at Thorneye, except to remind me that I had to get married and pop out a bunch of brats.

I shake my head. “It’s not allowed in my house.”

Galen grunts something about his sister, my mother, a curse like ‘Troll’s Head’, whatever that means.

“I have an old pair,” Azure says. “I used to wear trousers when I worked in the agricultural fields, it was allowed back then. If you don’t feel too uncomfortable wearing them, I can lend them to you.”

I smile. “Thank you.”

She returns the smile and rises up. “I’ll be back in a moment.” And she disappears around the corner, most likely heading for the bedroom.

I notice that she hasn’t eaten much. Her plate is practically intact. I understand, not even I feel at my ease eating such a good breakfast knowing that the neighboring people, once our friend and ally, suffer from hunger. But we need energy for the trip, so I swallow down the disgust along with the last bite of eggs and loaf.

Galen seems to think the same thing, because he gulps his portion quickly, in the blink of an eye, and after a noisy burp that makes us both blush, he stands up, apologizing, and goes into the garden to prepare Flirr, the wagon and provide for the neighbor - the grumpy and surly Belva - to take care of the hens and cows while they are away.

Azure returns a few minutes later, while I’m busy washing the dishes in the tiny wooden bowl for the two goldfish that Galen has saved from the lake contaminated by trolls. She’s holdin a long brown dress which instead of the skirt has two separate, distinct “areas”. The color is overused and dull, of course, but the fabric is woolly and warm. If I didn’t know her aversion to meat, I would say it’s bearskin. It is probably a fabric specially treated for farmers who sowed in winter.

“It’s perfect,” I say, clasping my wet hands around the soft fabric.

Azure smiles, a wave of nostalgia marks her face. “I spent almost twenty years in the agricultural fields of Rohandor before getting married and moving to the city. It was a tiring job, very tiring, but satisfying in its own way. I’d made many friends who unfortunately did not survive all winters.” Her joyful smile vanishes a little. “It’s a precious item... It reminds me that the best days of our lives are yet to come.” She raises her eyes, opening into another loving smile. “I want you to have it.”

I open mine wide, taken aback. “Oh no, I can’t possibily accept...”

“Yes, you can.” She squeezes her rough hands around mine, over the dress. “You are infinitely more precious to me than this old memory, Relle.” She puts a hand on my cheek. “Take it and remember: the best days of your life are yet to come.”

I see my tears reflected in her eyes. I’ve never had this kind of relationship with my mother. Greta has never been a friend, a sister, a point of reference. Azure was.

She smiles again, sweeping away the sadness. “Come on, let’s go. A long and exhausting journey awaits us.”

As Azure reaches Galen in the garden, I take a few more minutes to get ready in their room. As a child I had worn pantsuits several times for riding lessons with Fergus, I still remembered how they work. However, after wearing them I feel stupid. They’re lumpy and a bit wide on my flat stomach.

The cap falls to the ground as I tie the blue cape around my thin neck, and my long raven hair falls over my shoulder, on my legs. I hurry to cover it when I hear Azure coming into the room. Her step is unmistakable: delicate, as if asking for permission.

“Why do you always hide them? They’re so beautiful,” she says approaching.

I sigh. “My mother says that beauty is a whim, a symbol of seduction used by sad and coward women who want to attract men’s attention through their flesh.” I sigh again. “It’s been since I was fifteen that she hasn’t let me keep them loose outside the house. I got used to it.”

I feel her thin and slightly calloused fingers caressing my neck. “But it’s a shame, don’t you think? After all, beauty is a gift like intelligence, good health and a compassionate heart. Why hide one and not the others?” With fluid and fast movements she braids my hair. “You must never hide who you are from the world’s eyes. If it seems too vast, too ferocious, remember who you are and cling to your true nature with all your might.”

This is precisely the problem: I don’t know. I don’t know who I am, or who I must be. How could I? I grew up inside a golden cage that repressed me and forced me to desperate acts of rebellion, such as giving up meat and that trip to Mord-Een.

“Who am I?” I whisper loudly.

“You are a woman,” Azure replies. “You are not without courage or sad. You are strong, combative, and you can be as fierce as men. Your wonderful indomitable hair reflects the rebellion hidden in your spirit. You’re not a hay-filled doll, Relle. You’re a woman. Be proud of it.” She finishes styling my hair, and I find myself with a long thick braid that slides sinuously on my back.

I caress it thoughtfully.

She cups my face in her hands. “You’ll see, everything will be different when we return to Mord- Een. I promise you.”

“How? How many things can change in just three weeks?” Mine is an ironic comment, but she takes me seriously.

Her smile becomes somewhat mysterious. “More things than you can imagine.”

I don’t understand the allusion and I don’t have the chance to deepen the conversation. The time has come to leave.

I follow Azure downstairs and then into the garden. Galen is already on horseback. The wagon is full, except for a small uncluttered space reserved for me and Azure. I climb up first, then I help her to do the same.

“Ready?” Galen asks us, snapping the reins. “Ready,” Azure replies with a crystalline laugh.

My heart is beating fast, louder than usual. My hands are sweaty, and never before have I felt so impatient and determined.

Yes, I’m ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter the very first new characters are finally introduced: Galen and Azure. Kind-hearted, generous people. Galen is Relle’s mother’s older brother, and it is obvious he doesn’t get along well with his sister.  
> Azure had a hard life: she was born into a wealthy family, and then, for reasons that only she knows, she was sold as a slave in areas full of agricultural fields on the Borders, where summer was unbearably hot and winter so cold as to actually kill the elders and children of the group. She lived there for twenty years: when she was twenty-nine, the agricultural fields were abandoned by their supervisors because of a strange, vicious darkness that was slowly approaching. So, Galen and a few others took this opportunity to save and help all the survivors to run away safely (after months of pondering and discussing a plan). Galen used to help people in need whenever he could.  
> That’s how they met. Now Azure’s forty-eight, too old to have children (although she looks barely thirty-five), and she’s happy with Galen as it is.
> 
> P. S. Belva, their neighbor, is a rather interesting character, at least in my head (he won’t physically appear in the story): extremely jealous of his home, no one had ever set foot inside; the house is carved in wood like that of a owl. Though Belva is heary like a beaver.


	3. Mord-Een

The first hours of that long journey pass in silence; the only noteworthy sounds come from nature, from birdsong and the rustling of the wind in the trees.

Then, after a couple of songs hummed aloud to provide us with mirth (Galen is terribly out of tune), as we cross the border of Mord-Een’s scorched earth, our voices trail off in unison and our faces become gloomy.

The gray and distant walls of the kingdom are as sad and anguished as the dead trees and devastated soil. There are blankets and objects scattered all over the place, on the graves of the fallen, mostly willing citizens. They had fought, despite the obvious numerical inferiority and the poor skills in battle. They had fought, and that’s all that matters.

At least the elves had had the decency to allow survivors to bury their loved ones. But this isn’t enough, not in the least. All for a handful of white gems that absolutely cannot compete with the value of human life.

Finally, after half a day of travel and three breaks to allow Flirr to rest and feed ourselves, we reach Mord-Een’s gates.

Two elves in golden armor oversee the entrance. More elves, arranged in a neat row, preside over the high walls. Not many, but this doesn’t surprise me: it is a small and unprotected kingdom, who could occupy it with them to guard? Maybe someone else interested in white gems? Hard to believe.

Galen gets off the wagon with slow and calculated movements, without haste. The elves follow his every motion with great attention and only a hint of polite interest. We certainly don’t represent a threat to them.

They’re all extraordinarily beautiful, I find myself forced to admit. More than humans. Smooth and perfect faces, bright eyes, smooth shiny hair, lithe and slender bodies... But then again, the most beautiful flowers are often the most lethal. One must never be deceived by appearances.

Galen takes three heavy steps towards them, after which he stops and begins to speak: “We’re here to deliver food to the survivors. We’ve been told that it is possible to enter the city and stay for the time necessary to treat the wounded. We delivered a food supply over two months ago, but those who live inside these walls have not yet been released.”

None of them answer.

“Considering that you haven’t allowed citizens to leave the kingdom to reach the closest one, which would be Rohandor, we’re here to deliver an additional supply”, continues Galen.

The silence persists, absolute and unnerving.

Galen remains calm, but even he starts to get irritated when he notices their blatant indifference to his words.

“If you’re not allowed to make decisions on your own, can you tell me who I can talk to who has the power to do it?”

Still silence.

Galen takes another step forward, and this time the elves do react. They take the bows from their belts and nock the arrows with an invisible, perfectly synchronized movement.

Azure immediately gets up, but Galen gestures her to not move.

“We’re not here to challenge your authority,” Galen says, firmly.

The arches stay tense.

“We’re unarmed. You have no right to threaten our lives like this!”

“Who dares to say what we have or do not have the right to do?” A voice echoes from the top of the walls. A velvety and masculine voice.

I look up.

Another elf. The difference is that his hair is light blond, almost white, and his face is slightly more expressive than his fellows’. For the rest, he’s identical to any other elf. Cold and imperturbable.

Galen replies, “My family and I have come here to deliver medicines and supplies to the prisoners trapped in the lost kingdom of Mord-Een.”

The elf tilts his head by half a centimeter, without saying a word.

“We’ve been told that only one wagon every two months is allowed to enter the walls. Almost five months have passed since the battle that brought about this devastation. Prisoners are still prisoners. The reason we’re here.”

The elf meditates for another minute. Then he shouts something to the guards, who sheathe the arches and open the gates. He used the Elvish language, an incomprehensible mixture of musical verses and harmonious words.

Galen starts to thank the white elf, but he’s already gone. He goes back, gets on the wagon and takes us over the border of the great walls.

The insides of Mord-Een are just a little less eerie than the outside: the gardens are still intact, the air smells of rising spring, while the stench of blood of those who resisted has been dragged away by the last winter currents. There is no one around, the houses are closed and the windows are barred. They’re not allowed to leave their homes, I suppose. The mine that preserves the white gems is located right at the center of the city, under the fountain dedicated to the deceased mayor, now destroyed. It’s surrounded by elves busy digging and collecting treasure. I count the stones: four. There must not be many others left in the quarry.

The white elf reappears the instant the gate is closed behind us. He’s tall and slim, fluid in movement. His eyes are sky-colored, iridescent, cold and detached. There is something different about him... his face is less static.

He grimaces, walking around our small and poor wagon. “Supplies and medicines, you said. Nothing else?” Accent and simple language, that’s how his voice sounds like.

“You’re free to check,” Galen replies calmly.

The elf thinks for a moment, then tugs the blanket that wraps the sacks full of fruit, vegetables, medicinal herbs and dry wheat. He unties them all with a single quick movement of the knife and carefully check the contents. Satisfied or dissatisfied that he is (he was probably expecting weapons or some other means for the prisoners escape), he gestures for us to follow him.

Both Azure and I get off the wagon and proceed on foot. Galen tightens the bridle and guides Flirr through the square submerged in dust and debris.

My gaze is captured again by the glitter of the gems. They shine on a canvas of very fine woven gold threads, and the elves handle them with great care and reference, as if they were _alive_. It’s not fair that they waged war against a small kingdom for such a small quantity of stupid stones... Their king must be a terribly greedy and cruel creature.

For a single, brief moment, I imagine what it would feel like to steal one of their precious gems and see them go crazy. A smile curves the corners of my lips. I’ve never been a vindictive person, but in this case it wouldn’t be a matter of revenge, as more of justice.

I don’t have the time to delve into the idea as much as I’d like. I follow Galen and Azure towards the old town hall, which has always been a safe meeting place for citizens. It’s closed, and the voices that come from inside quiet as soon as they hear the sound of our approaching wagon.

The white elf stops at the foot of the wooden staircase and turns around. “Most of the survivors are in here. The few remaining inhabitants hide in their homes and are prohibited from leaving. You can go to them tomorrow morning.”

Galen nods dryly.

Azure and I prepare to pull the heavy bags off the wagon. I’m slim and petite, I don’t have much strength in my arms, so I rely mostly on my legs. I don’t want all the work to weigh on Azure’s shoulders. As strong as she may be, she’s not as young as she was.

The elf glances at us. Then, unexpectedly, he sighs and comes over to help. He takes four bags at once and goes to deposit them at the top of the staircase, near the double barred doors of the town hall. Azure pulls up another sack and the elf takes it out of her hands. She thanks him with a smile that takes him a bit off guard. Galen grabs two more bags and drags them, puffing and cursing, to their destination.

My sack is not heavier than theirs, but I still struggle to support it. The muscles of my arms and back burn, my knees tremble. I grit my teeth.

The elf approaches me with outstretched arms, as if to take the sack out of my hands, too.

Suddenly, I stiffen. I don’t want his blood-soaked hands to touch me. I don’t care if he just wants to help, I can’t stand the thought of him touching me.

“I got this!” I burst out half a meter from his pale and tapered fingers.

He raises his eyebrows, I don’t know if more offended or astounded by my reaction. However, he pulls back, walking in the opposite direction, towards the square.

Between one breath and the other, I manage to carry the last bag. I lay it on the ground with a moan. My muscles are sore.

Azure gives me a soft look. “He just wanted to help.”

I answer with my head bowed and my lips tight. “I don’t care. His hands bear the blood of our friends.”

She doesn’t know how to respond to that.

Galen gets closer to the double doors and knocks vigorously. “Open the door.”

“What do you want?” A muffled male voice asks on the other side. “None of you enter and none of us leave. That’s our deal!”

“We’re Galen, Azure and Rellél from Rohandor. We’re here to deliver your food.”

“Rellél?” Says the voice behind the door.

My eyes widen as my lips instantly curve into a smile. “Yes, it’s me.”

The locks open, the doors too. Quentin’s beautiful pale face, blue eyes and dark hair peeps out.

“Rellél!” He shouts, rushing to hug me.

His body is solid, muscular and strong. I press myself against him, a lively and pulsing emotion blooming in my heart.

Quentin laughs, drunk with joy, and puts me down. His hands gently cup my face. “I can’t believe it... you’re really here! You’re not a vision, are you?”

I see myself reflected in his cobalt blue eyes. “No. I’m really here.”

His face abruptly turns serious. “As happy as I am to see you, you shouldn’t have come. It’s dangerous.”

I shrug. “I can always leave if you want.”

He frowns, then lights up with another smile. “Too late, I won’t let you go that easily. In fact, on second thought, I think I’ll never let you go again!”

My cheeks burn, while my body shivers with contentment.

Azure approaches us with a smirk on her lips. “Can I greet you too, young man?”

Quentin returns the smile and immediately hugs her warmly. “I’m so happy to see you. All of you.”

“Oh really? For a moment I thought you’d only seen Rellél!” She winks at me over his shoulder.

Quentin peeks at me. “It was like that for a moment.”

If possible, I blush even more.

Galen turns to us. “Are you done with the mushy stuff? I’m not a mule, you know?”

Quentin nods. “Sorry, Galen.”

He mumbles something intelligible, lifting two heavy bags.

Quentin whistles.

At the door appear five men, two elders and three youngsters, who undertake to collect the remaining sacks. Quentin grabs three and carries them inside. I follow him.

The interior of the town hall, due to the barred windows, is very dark and dusty. The wood creaks under our feet. The dust floats in the air, dimly lit by the sporadic light trails that penetrate the thin crevices. It’s hot and the humidity immediately sticks to my neck and hair.

Hesitating, a few minutes after we entered, about fifty people come forward to help us with the sacks. The youngest are all under the age of twenty, some men and women in their thirties, but mostly the survivors are elders and children. And they are hungry, it’s evident from how they look at the provisions. But still not desperate to the point of snatching them from our hands.

A red-haired girl, a few centimeters shorter than me and thinner, about my age, gives me a shy smile, silently asking me to share the weight of my sack with her. I respond to the smile feeling a little awkward and accept the offer.

Upstairs there are at least sixty other people and they all look out of the wooden railing to observe us as we deposit the bags and begin to open them to share the contents.

A tall, pale, big-boned man with white hair, beard and mustache leans dangerously over the banister. With one hand he holds a hat hovering over his eyes. “Hey, lad, what’s going on?”

Quentin looks up. He frowns and positions himself under a blade of light, so as to make himself visible to the rest of the guests.

“The supplies have arrived, Titus,” he says. “From Rohandor.”

“AH! It was about time!” Titus exclaims, taking the stairs. For someone so old he has surprising strength and agility. He stands in front of Galen and offers him a big and muscular hand. They shake hands energetically. “We were waiting for you for a long time. Where you been?"

“We had to gather everything we needed and unfortunately it took longer than we expected”, Galen replies, diplomatically. “We collected what we could.”

Quentin takes it upon himself to introduce us. “This man is Titus Beo-Durr, the mayor’s younger brother.”

Azure frowns. “But wasn’t Milligan the last name of Mord-Een’s major?”

Titus looks at me and winks. Then returns to focus on Azure. “The lady’s sharp. Yes, indeed the surname of my poor brother was Milligan. My past is somewhat… peculiar, I would say.”

“Titus is a distant cousin of the Beo-Durr dwarf family,” Quentin says, cautiously.

Galen stares at him with knitted brows. “Cousin of the dwarves?”

“So to speak,” Titus says. “That crazy mother of mine had the good idea of cheating on my father a few years after the birth of my brother. So she sent me for a while to a dwarf friend, an old acquaintance of her, while waiting for the old man to kick the bucket, and I grew up there for fourteen years. By now they consider me like family.”

We all exchange a puzzled look.

Galen evidently regards the explanations as over, as he hurries to get the conversation back on a safer path. “I’m Galen. She’s my wife Azure, and she’s my niece Relle.”

Titus looks alternatively at us with a friendly scowl. “Pleasure, pleasure to meet you.”

“The elves have quibbled at the entrance, compared to the last time. Can you tell me the reason?”

Titus does that choked sound again, an “AH!” strong and sardonic, which I find very funny.

“Simple, my friend. They collected almost all the white gems. Two or a few more remain. I don’t remember exactly how many... it’s been years since the last time we sent anyone down the quarry. That place falls apart.” He snorts loudly, looking around. The sacks are open and the supplies are being shared equally. “If I remember correctly, there are seven. Seven white gems of pure starlight. Very rare, very precious for the Elvenking.”

“They may be valuable for their king, but why the violence? Didn’t they seek compromise before the war? An agreement?” Azure asks.

“Oh yes, as far as I know, they did. My brother was an idiot, he didn’t want to give in. That treasure was our only resource in case of ruin and... I guess he preferred to die, rather than seeing it lost forever.”

There is a moment of silence, then he says, “Anyway, everyone knows the reason for such ferocity. Legends speak clearly, my friends. At Beo-Durr’s home they talked about it all the time! They were my favorite bedtime stories.”

“And what’s that?” Galen asks, perplexed.

“The legend of the Seventh White Star, of course.”

“The legend of the Seventh White Star?” Azure says, dumbfounded. “It’s about the gems, right?”

Before Titus can answer, another man steps in. A man who’s present in one or two of my past memories. Quentin’s father, Seregor Beck.

“Seven gems, seven sisters,” he says stepping forward in the dim light. He’s tall, has broad shoulders and is bald. His eyebrows are bushy and black like Quentin’s, the smile equally affable, but his eyes are emerald green, as well as the dust-stained clothes he wears. “To make the gems work and communicate with the stars, elven magic and human spiritual wisdom were needed. Thus, seven elf women were chosen, among the wisest. They reunited, each one carrying a gem of stellar purity and they gave prosperity through accurate predictions for many moons. That was until one of them was killed and the circle was broken. The gems were buried in a distant and deserted land, the Mord-Een of thousands of years ago. Which brings us to now.” He smiles, showing off his regular white teeth. “Naturally it’s just a silly legend. The Elvenking is greedy, everyone knows his weakness for white gems.”

Titus Beo-Durr mumbles something like ‘so much for synthesis, I would’ve told it better’, but everyone ignores him.

Galen shakes his hand. “Seregor. It’s a pleasure to see you again after all these years.”

“Galen, old friend, the pleasure is all mine.” His small, intense green eyes sparkle as they turn to his wife. “Azure dear, I find you more exquisite and younger than when I left you. Absolutely beautiful.”

“Is that a compliment?” Azure replies with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. Then she laughs and shakes his hand, holding it between hers. “It’s nice to see you again, Seregor.”

Now Seregor’s attention is switched on me. “Relle... how you’ve grown! You were just a little girl with pigtails when I left Rohandor... it’s certainly been a long time!” He murmurs with a touch of nostalgia in his voice. “But alas, business led me elsewhere. And after the departure of my beloved Ava...” His gaze gets distant for a moment.

I approach Quentin and take his hand. The sadness on his face evaporates instantly as he gives me a sweet smile.

“Titus, don’t you think the time has come?” Seregor asks, earnestly.

Titus nods. “Of course, yes, yes...” he mutters. Then he claps three times. “Come on, people! We’re safe! Food and medicine are here! Don’t be rude, show yourself!”

The same instant the sentence ends, a flame comes to life upstairs on the railing. Then another one, another one, and another one. In twenty seconds the interior of the town hall is illuminated by hundreds of dancing flames.

Ah, that’s what the candles are for.

The crowd starts moving. They collect the sacks, pass them around, share the supplies. They all sing an ancient song whose words I do not know, which speaks of war, ballads and a tragic love. Quentin keeps smiling at me like a happy child as everything around us slowly comes to life.

Quentin, Titus, Galen, Azure, Seregor and I watch the show, each with a different expression. Mine is a mixture of joy, amusement, surprise and tiredness.

At the end of the song, everyone sits down on the ground with their own portion of food. For less urgent medical care we will provide tomorrow. We’re all exhausted.

I drink my portion of oatmeal in the company of Galen and Azure, while Quentin, across the long and wide lounge, sits next to Titus. Every now and then I discreetly peek at him in secret and catch him staring at me. We smile at each other like two fools, before awkwardly looking down and going back to dinner.

Galen exchanges a last word with Titus before going to bed. I guess he wants to finalize the program for the next day. Shortly after, he comes back to us and lies down next to Azure.

I curl up on the other side, closing my eyes. I’m bushed, therefore I fall asleep immediately.

I am currenlty a prisoner of a confused dream on the summit of a snowy mountain when, hours later, someone gently shakes my shoulder, trying to wake me up. My eyes snap open immediately and Quentin places a hand on my mouth to keep me from screaming. I look out of the window frames: the full moon is high in the sky, it must be late at night.

“What is it?” I whisper under his fingers.

“We never got to be alone today. It’s been centuries! Do you feel like going out?”

I glance at the door. “Is it safe?”

His smile widens. “I know a secret.”

He knows perfectly well that “secret” is the key word to get everything he wants from me. I’m a very curious person.

I jump up and follow him to the end of the hall.

Quentin moves a large picture depicting the mayor, gesturing for me to precede him.

The tunnel is dark and steamy. The wood is stained with rainwater that has infiltrated the walls, so it’s full of bumps. It’s no longer than twenty yards when on the end I recognize the bright contours of a door.

“A secret corridor inside the town hall... nothing we haven’t seen before,” I comment.

Quentin, behind me, laughs. His warm breath tickles the back of my neck.

“When did you find it?”

“About a month ago, while I was looking for a way out of this place without being seen. It was Titus who gave me the idea. According to him, his brother must have kept this place exactly as it was before he became mayor, therefore the previously unsealed secret passages must have stayed intact. There are four of them, including this one. The rest were closed for hygiene and safety reasons, but this... this remained open.”

Well, it is certainly a nice surprise, even if all in all useless. Maybe I should point it out to him, just to understand what his goal is.

“A way out for what? There is no way to escape the guards, is there?”

“I needed a few things...” he replies enigmatically.

He doesn’t add anything else and I don’t either. Walking in silence in his company is more than I could wish for.

He precedes me long the last steps. He looks at me, a smile on his lips, then opens the door.

It takes me a few minutes to fully realize where we are.

Vaulted ceiling, stained glass windows painted with great skill, fine wood furniture, fluffy curtains... We’re in a library, one of the oldest and unfortunately unused places in the kingdom. Hardly anyone in Mord-Een, as in Rohandor, can read. I learned thanks to my father, and Quentin thanks to the private studies that his had payed him.

The tall shelves hang over the tiny, round reading tables. The books are full of dust, which is why they are so incredibly fascinating. Rough, smooth, thick, thin, small, big... math, science, languages, literature, philosophy, poetry, astronomy... their value is simply incalculable. Unlike a handful of stupid white gems.

I take one from the lower shelf and flip through it slowly, enjoying the touch of every single page. The title is: _History of the Kingdom of Men._ It is of an indefinite color, between brown and gray; it smells of mysteries, of emotions defined in words. I breathe it, together with the fragrance of the dust.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Quentin climbing a narrow wooden ladder and taking two, three, four volumes. When he comes back down his raven hair is soaked with dust, his perfect nose floured with gray.

“So these were the _very important_ things you needed. Books?” I ask, closing the book and coughing because of the wave of powder that spreads from the moldy pages. “I was thinking more of something like weapons, or some special anti-elf repellent.”

He grins. “Nah. We’re not soldiers, we wouldn’t know what to do with axes or swords. Any attempt to drive away the elves would be negative and counterproductive.”

“Galen is an excellent woodsman and I bet Titus is not bad with weapons either.”

“Maybe you’re right. But, you see, people have stopped caring about the essential things, the small pleasures of life. What is the use for a farmer being able to read? Or for a mother to know how to write, when her voice is her only power, the reference point of her children? Some time ago I decided to change things.” He places the books on the long central rectangular table, smooth and bare, covered with dusty wads. “After finishing my studies, I left home to open a small teaching center of my own, on the edge of the kingdom. The mayor was kind to me, and given the influence of my father, which for a good cause I allowed myself to exploit for the first time in my life, he let me have an old abandoned house as a starting point for those interested in learning.”

“So I had a place and a purpose. Everything was fine,” he adds.

“You’ve become a teacher?” I ask in a low voice, enchanted by the story and the expressive shadows on his face.

He nods. “The first of Mord-Een, the first of Rohandor.” He sighs. “When I started I had no one to teach to. I was ignored and scorned. But the more I helped the poorest understand the words beyond the figures painted on paper, walking around the city and spending my time with those who had no roof to stay under or a warm meal to eat, the more people’s attention towards me became benevolent. You see? Not only did I sit with people who were less fortunate than me and offered them water and meals, but I _taught to them_. Like princes, the same way as kings and queens.

“Gradually the first willing mothers started showing up. Likewise husbands, forced by their wives, and children, forced by their mothers.” He snorts a chuckle. “The sense of obligation soon vanished, fortunately. After all, what sense could teaching have if the student in question has no desire to learn? Now they consider me a point of reference for the community. Fancy that, they even started calling me Quentin He-Who-Knows.” He smiles to himself. “I will never admit it to anyone other than you, Relle, but I like my new name. Better than Quentin Son of Seregor, anyway.”

I smile too. “Wasn’t Quentin the Scribbler better? Or Quentin the Literate?”

He curls up his nose. “Too obvious.”

“True,” I admit.

“Anyway, I managed to build a place for myself in the kingdom by doing something useful.” His gaze fades, his smile vanishes. “And now it’s all lost.”

It hurts my heart to see him so sad. I put my hand over his, searching for his eyes.

“Nothing is ever truly lost. We will continue to fight.”

His angular face, still full of shadows, lights up a bit.

“I missed you, Relle,” he whispers.

“I missed you too”.

Suddenly I notice, with a hint of embarrassment, that we’ve never been this close since... an eternity. A long time ago we were just children, two lively and carefree kids. Now we’re both adults. A man and a woman.

I shiver. Quentin notices it and mistakes it for the natural reaction to the temperature in the library. If only he knew... Heaven, I’m acting like an infatuated sixteen year old, complete with nervous thrills and butterflies in my stomach.

“Of course, you’re cold. What an idiot I am,” he says.

“No, I’m fine.” And it is pure and simple truth.

He takes off his dark blue jacket and puts it on my shoulders, ignoring my weak protests. I can smell his sweet scent, a mixture of candles, warm bread and sugar. I shiver again, this time of pleasure.

“Thanks,” I murmur in a soft voice.

He lights up with another smile. “Duty.”

Our eye contact persists and is intense, far too much for my heart. I look away and beam an awkward smile.

“Anything else you need?” I ask, secretly hoping he says no.

Quentin blinks, frowns and clears his throat. Am I wrong, or did his cheeks turn red?

“No... er, we can go,” he says.

We retrace the corridor. This time I don’t hesitate, I know exactly what the destination is and I recognize the irregular sketches, step by step, under my feet. Quentin is close enough to make me feel safe. His jacket is heavy, warm and enveloping. I’ve never been this close to achieving happiness before.

Once back in the town hall, Quentin closes the picture with extreme caution, without making a single noise. One _click_ and the secret passage is sealed behind us. We smile at each other like two kids. Breaking the rules is fun.

I look for the motionless, familiar figures of Galen and Azure and find them where I left them, a couple of yards from the double doors of the entrance, next to the stone monument depicting the first mayor of the city.

Quentin sidelooks the back of the room, looking for Titus, who’s amiably snoring in his sleep. A poor fellow is struck in the head and wakes up with a start, turning his back on him with a furious glance, this time keeping at a safe distance from his dancing feet.

I have to cover my mouth to stifle a laugh.

Quentin nods to the books he carries under his arm. “Thanks for accompanying me to get these. The library at night is lovely, but a little disheartening. It’s nice to have company for a change.”

“They won’t ask you where you got them?”

“No. They’ll think I stole them from the library of the mayor’s office.”

I nod absentmindedly. I start to take off my jacket, but he clamps his hands around my shoulders, so that the fabric doesn’t move an inch.

“Keep it. You can give it back to me tomorrow morning, okay?”

I nod, grateful for the darkness that covers the flash of color on my face.

“Then... goodnight, Quentin.”

“Goodnight, Relle.” He leans over me, and just when I think he’s going to kiss me, he rests his soft lips on my cheek. I’m a little disappointed but also and above all excited. Why go fast? A kiss on the cheek is an event to celebrate, to fully enjoy.

He smiles one last time before walking across the hall.

As I watch him, I automatically wrap myself in his jacket. I take a deep breath and reach Galen and Azure, lying down next to them.

I should be far from falling asleep after the adventure in the library and the kiss, but I find myself pretty exhausted. The journey was long, hard work, with fabulously too much emotion. I absolutely need to rest.

I stick my nose into the sleeve of his jacket and, deeply inhaling Quentin’s perfume, I let myself be lulled into the quiet world of dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the names were chosen according to my personal taste, while others, following the style of the Lord of the Rings, are of English, Germanic or Nordic origin, except the surname Milligan which would be of Irish origin. In fact, the first mayor of Mord-Een was a certain Maolagán.
> 
> Small note on the previous mayor, a funny and rather quirky figure: Titus’ half-brother used to wear a horrendous orange-colored bob wig and draw his eyebrows to hide the baldness; he was a fat, food-loving man with greasy hazel eyes and a high-pitched voice. Although he was a simpleton who had been elected by mere descent after his father and grandfather, he was a good man, perhaps only a little naive, even if he was comic in his own way, since he was always fooled by that shrewd of Titus.
> 
> Returning to the names:  
> Ava, Seregor Beck’s late wife, is a Germanic name with the possible meaning of “desired”.  
> Beck, Quentin’s surname, comes from Old English bece, from Ancient Nordic bekkr.


	4. Thief

In my dream I wander like a pale ghost, wrapped in a long transparent white robe, over a mountain of frozen stone. The breeze is pleasant, cold but also warm. The moon shines high, surrounded by a handful of stars that seem to draw an archer on horseback in the sky.

I levitate on the uneven ground as if dancing, my movements imperceptible and graceful. My hair is loose, free to float along with my body. I have never felt so light, nor more free. Without weight and consistency.

From afar I see figures close around a bonfire of pure white light. Their clothes sparkle like stars. They have hair as long as mine, bright and very smooth. They are women, auburn-haired, except one, the oldest, who wears an elaborate silver-blond hairstyle.

I notice that two of them remain distant from each other, as if someone is missing and they’re waiting for him.

They are six. Six women-elf. Their splendid and pearly faces, pointed ears, rigid and austere bearing... cannot deceive me, not even in a dream.

They recite incomprehensible words, singing with their hands joined around the heavy silver flames.

I move in closer, but almost immediately encounter an invisible barrier that repels me. A protective shield that ripples only if touched.

I focus, narrowing my eyes, and... I am shocked by what I see. Apparently, I was misled.

The burning fire is not simple white light, fatuous and harmless. The incandescent brightness comes from seven white gems placed above a polished black stone altar, inside a shallow basin.

I must be dreaming the legend of the Seventh White Star.

The moment I realize it, the dream fades. As I arrived, levitating just above the mountain, I go back, retracing the path of icy gray stone without touching the ground. The vivid images disappear, replaced by a dense alarming darkness. It takes my breath away.

I wake up with a start, opening my eyes wide in the sunlight.

I feel strangely sore and a little too heavy. I don’t understand the reason immediately, but it takes me only a few seconds to realize that something is wrong.

Azure holds me close and Galen is a few steps away, crouched in a defensive position. Ridiculous, he doesn’t even have a weapon.

My sleepy brain slowly focuses on the light of the day, forgotten until a few hours ago, which opens its way through the double broken doors of the town hall. The prisoners of Mord-Een hid and curled up in the corners of the room, except for some brave young men, including Quentin, who stand between the intruding elves and the rest of the defenseless people.

“What do you want? What is the reason for this intrusion?” Seregor Beck asks coldly.

Titus wields a long wooden stick, probably taken from the railing on the upper floor. It’s clear that he knows how to use it and that he doesn’t fear the elves, despite the obvious numerical inferiority and their clear superiority in battle.

Quentin is tense and motionless.

A loud noise draws my attention. I automatically look up and see the armored elves patrolling every corner of the town hall. Neat, expressionless and inquisitive.

What are they looking for?

“What’s going on?” I whisper against Azure’s cheek.

She replies without taking her eyes off the elves. “I don’t know. They rushed in here like a windstorm not even five minutes ago, shortly after dawn. They woke us up, not very kindly, accusing us of breaking the agreement.”

Only now do I notice an old man massaging his bony shoulder and a boy who’s bleeding from his nose.

I feel a surge of anger that is not in my nature. I clench my fists and jaw.

The white elf takes the floor. “Someone robbed us tonight.” He peers at us with his cold ice-colored eyes, one by one. His gaze passes me without even seeing me. “In a moment of distraction, caused by the entry of a cart of food into the kingdom,” he casts a hostile glance at Galen, “someone broke into the square and stole a gem.”

Titus explodes into a loud laugh. “AH! And you notice it only ten minutes ago? It serves you right!”

The white elf glares at him. “We were too busy not to bring the city down under your filthy _thieves’_ feet to check that the gems were protected and untouched. The dawn revealed us the misdeed.”

I blink, stunned. And pleased. Someone managed to deceive them, to fool them!

Well, it’s not good news. They’re here to find the person responsible, to punish, not to reason or compliment the thief for his guts.

“We have no intention of leaving the guilty unpunished,” he says, giving voice to my words. “But we also don’t want to bring further turmoil where war has already brought devastation and suffering.”

“And whose fault is that, huh?” Titus blurts out loudly, gaining another grim look from the white elf. “The soldiers of Mord-Een, albeit inferior and unaccustomed to war, fought valiantly to preserve a kingdom already in ruins, to protect our people! What right did you have,” he advances towards him, “to stain these lands with their blood? To make us your prisoners, to rob us?” Now he’s close to him, too close, their noses almost touching. “I’ve always considered you an honest prince, Legolas son of Thranduil. What a great disappointment I see.”

The white elf, Legolas, opens his eyes wide, as if struck by his words. Is honor a weak point for elves too? Most likely yes, given his reaction.

“It’s not robbing if the stolen treasure belongs to your family, Titus follower of the Dwarves,” replies Legolas with equal contempt. “The gems trapped under Mord-Een quarry have belonged to elves for generations beyond memory! Long before your people crossed these lands!” He walks around Titus, embracing the entire room with his eyes. “I promised you that I would let you go, once we’d recovered the gems. I have every intention of keeping my promise.” The numerous sighs of relief are immediately cut off by his subsequent words. “However, I never promised to let you go _in once piece_.” With a quick movement, too quick for anyone to see it, he unsheathes two glittering daggers from his belt. “Now. Is the thief ready to take his responsibilities and come forward?”

My gaze flashes from Azure, Galen to Quentin. His face is stiff, full of anger. Fear squeezes my throat. I wouldn’t let him hurt any of them. I’d rather die.

“Be reasonable, Legolas,” Seregor intervenes with a nervous smile. “Who among us could have mocked one of your guards?”

“I don’t know,” replies Legolas, frighteningly calm. “I guess we’ll find out soon.”

Galen takes a step forward. “This is ridiculous! You have no right to threaten us!”

Legolas, lightning fast, raises his arm and points the blade at his throat.

Azure screams and clings to my arm. As terrified as her, I watch the elf threaten the life of the man who has always been a second father to me.

“It’s the second time you claim to determine what we have or do not have the right to do,” he says.

Galen doesn’t allow himself to feel intimidated and raises his hands. “I beg you to look at these people. _Really_ look at them.”

Legolas, oddly enough, perhaps because of the way he formulated his strange request, does so.

“They’re hungry, wearied, tried by the losses... they are not physically able to break the only accord that protects them, steal a gem under the nose of your irreproachable guards and return here as if nothing had happened! A real extortionist would have fled the city to find a way to enter into negotiations with you and free his people.”

No one can deny that his words make sense and are convincing. Indeed, it almost seems that he himself considered the idea. But I knew him too well: Galen was a good person, he always put the needs of others before his own. He would never run the risk of putting everyone – especially me and Azure - in danger.

Legolas seems to waver for a moment. Swiftly, his glance turns glacial, fierce and detached. “You seem to have given this a lot of thought,” he comments harshly. “Maybe I should start searching from you and your family.”

It all happens very quickly. I didn’t think he would hurt us, but obviously none of us could be sure.

Legolas grabs Galen’s arm and he automatically retracts abruptly. Titus runs to his aid, brandishing the stick. Legolas seizes him with one hand, rapidly and without even looking at him, while the rest of the men and women slowly take courage and approach us. They are immediately blocked by the elven guards, who hold bows and arrows, taking aim.

Azure rushes to Galen. Unfortunately she loses balance and in order not to let her fall I lean forward, supporting her, and end up lying on the ground. Pain and humiliation are minimal, compared to the shock that follows.

A crystalline sound echoes through the room, freezing each person present.

Slowly and densely, Legolas’ livid and astonished gaze rests on me.

Something has fallen from the pocket of my jacket. I look down and my whole body loses warmth and sensitivity.

“Thief!” Someone hisses.

I’m too shocked to protest, to scream my innocence. How is this possible? How could it have been there all along, without me noticing?

I look up, searching for Quentin, for an answer. The jacket is his. I find him a little further away, pale as a ghost. He seems incredulous and terrified as much as I am.

Was it him then? I can’t believe it... let alone believe that I’m not in the least furious with him. Of course, he could have warned me, or simply taken back his jacket before bidding goodnight... With all probability the emotion had played him as much as it had played me.

He did a brave thing, despite the disastrous consequences. I can’t really hate him for that.

Legolas lets Galen go and rushes over to me. He lifts me up, tightening his tapered hands around the collar of my dress. His shimmering eyes blind me for a split second.

“How could have been you?” He blows an inch from my face. “How did you do it?”

My eyes run over Galen and Azure. All I have left is a way to protect them, to not take them down with me, a way to force the elves to leave the city and save the people of Mord-Een. One last chance to save Quentin.

The best solution is often the simplest one.

I look him straight in the eye, for the first time without fear. “It was easy. Nobody notices the shadow of a woman in a ghost town.” Azure was right: women can take advantage of mechanisms that men, not even elves, can imagine or understand. Women know to lie, seduce and _protect_ like no other creature. “Honestly, it was all too easy. I’m almost disappointed.” I’ve never lied in my whole life... for a first time, I’m doing pretty well.

Legolas relinquishes his grip on the lapel and grabs me roughly by the arm. I bite the inside of my cheeks so as not to burst into tears.

“We’re done here,” he announces. “The gems were collected, the last lost one was found. We can leave, allowing you to do the same freely.” I feel his gaze prick my cheek. “And you, thief, are coming with us.”

Galen and Azure scream with one voice. They struggle, but it’s useless. The elves surround them, drive them away. I feel tears swelling up my eyes but I don’t intend to cry, not yet. I never thought that my fate could one day depend upon the elves. Imagination can be limited compared to reality.

Quentin moves to reach me, but two elves cut him off instantly. “This isn’t true! You were with me tonight! Tell him, Relle!”

Legolas questions me with his eyes.

“He’s just trying to protect me.” It’s the easiest explanation to give. “I did it alone.”

Quentin throws himself on the guards, elbowing and kicking. They remain perfectly still, simply restraining him and rejecting his lunges.

I’m escorted out, very unceremoniously.

I’m not afraid. I think I haven’t yet realized the consequences of my choice. At the moment I only see the good side: Quentin safe; Galen and Azure alive; the poor people of Mord-Een free to leave.

Maybe my sacrifice was in vain... perhaps, by searching, they would still find the gem in Quentin’s jacket pocket. At that point, however, there would have been many more injured and very little chance of obtaining any form of indulgence.

I don’t understand, as a matter of fact, why Legolas didn’t just kill me on the spot.

I hear the screams of Galen, Azure and Quentin inside the barred town hall, kept in custody by the elves.

In the square the quarry is now empty, torned to pieces. Burnt earth and broken stones draw a sort of circle around the remains of the ancient fountain famous throughout the kingdom. Now there is a white horse, with shiny and perfect fur, standing in front of the gate.

Legolas escorts me holding me by the arm. He has a terrific hold. Upon reaching the horse, he lets me go, tying a golden bag (without doubt with the white gems inside) to the saddle.

“Why haven’t you killed me yet?” I ask sadly.

He replies without looking at me, “My father ordered me not to commit further violence where there has been too much.”

Nice of him, I think to myself bitterly.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” he adds. “Everyone has the right to a fair trial, even thieves. And this is an exceptional case in many respects.”

“You mean because of the gems? Or because I am a woman?”

His face contracts, hardening. He pulls out a sparkling thread, curled on itself, from his belt. It is silver in color and instead of being rigid, despite the concentric circles it forms down to the ground, it’s fluid and silky.

“A precaution,” he says, almost with a grin on his marble lips.

Before I can understand what he means, with a quick movement he releases the thread, similar to a whip, which immediately wraps around my body, imprisoning me. The more I pull the more it tightens.

Effortlessly, Legolas gets on the horse. He positions himself behind me and grabs the bridle.

“Make yourself comfortable. It’ll take a while,” he says.

I have no idea how far his reign is and I don’t even care. If I find even just one chance to escape I will exploit it. I don’t doubt the fact that it will be a little complicated with the magic thread that, with each breath, with each attempt to loosen it, tightens even more around my limbs.

“Don’t fight it,” he suggests. “I’ve seen less clever and bigger prisoners than you get torn apart.”

My every attempt to fight ceases instantly. _Curse him._

We continue through the trees. And I immediately realize that that horse has something different. It is faster than its brothers. Too fast. I close my eyelids and swallow deep mouthfuls of air.

I had stolen part of their treasure to punish them for their senseless cruelty - or so I had made them believe - and now I was escorted to their kingdom, before their king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are enjoying the story so far! The Seventh White Star is one of the very first Fanfiction I completed, therefore I wanted to publish it first. I wrote it in 2016.
> 
> I’d like to point out again that English is not my first language. Searching for synonyms and translating every chapter takes time and effort: I'm sorry for any grammatical monsters you may find! Please, focus on the plot! I will continue to work hard to improve.
> 
> The white elf ~ If Legolas was a color he would be white, Relle thinks. Mainly because of his own clear, perfect, natural colors. 
> 
> If you like the story, please remember to leave kudos❤️


	5. The reign of Thranduil

I can’t tell exactly how many hours the ride lasts. Too many in any case.

It’s hot, or maybe it’s the feeling of dread that makes me sweat. Strange, fear usually tends to make me feel cold, but this time… I’m burning alive.

Then I understand. I’m not just scared or terrified, I’m mostly angry. I am furious with the elves for invading a friendly realm and destroying its name, nullifying its power and ignoring the value of human life.

I am furious with Quentin for deliberately hiding his plan from me, instead of letting me participate from the start, and I am furious because he felt the need to protect me by forgetting to tell me where he had hidden the gem.

I am furious with my mother for repressing me all my life, rather than letting me become strong and self-reliant, falling and standing up with my own legs.

I am furious with fate.

First a sickly child, then a dull girl trapped in her own skin. Finally, a woman divided between duties and the impulse to pursue her desires. My twenty-one years of life had been a mixture of too much silence and countless duties.

I wouldn’t have survived the Elvenking’s judgment. I wouldn’t ask for mercy or plead for my life. He could do whatever he wanted with me because, at least for once in my insignificant existence, I had managed to make a grand gesture, a gesture that someone would remember.

My life had no value. The real value was up to me to decide, to prove. I would prove it by accepting the punishment in the place of someone I loved, who would survive that way. My sacrifice would serve to give value to both my life and my death.

A tear slides down my cheek. Unable to move to sweep it away, I let it run down my cheekbone and fall on the horse’s white mane. I don’t want to be weak. I can bear the dark plots of my fate. Only, I have to avoid thinking about dad, Fergus, mom... Galen and Azure... Quentin ...

Another tear.

Curse it. Is there really no way to stop the pain? To erase the fear? To stop thinking?

I sniff, pretending to take a deep breath. The lush green of the forest confuses me. There’s too much green here.

“Are you crying?” Legolas’ question comes unexpectedly.

I look straight in front of me and shake my head.

“Why are you crying?”

Before speaking, I make sure my voice is firm. I clear my throat and blink my wet eyelashes. “Isn’t it obvious? I will miss my friends, my family. I’m going towards death, right?”

“It is not certain. My father might decide to spare your life.”

I laugh bitterly. “What are the chances of that to be true?”

He doesn’t answer, and that suggests me everything I need to know.

“Leave me alone,” I mutter.

“You shouldn’t cry when you brought this upon yourself.”

“I know my faults, elf. Does your father, the king, know his?”

He stiffens and his chest turns to hard stone against my back. “Do not call me that. “Elf” is a term, not my name. I don’t call you “woman” or “human”, do I?”

I laugh again. “Will you teach me manners now?”

“Apparently you don’t know them.”

“I told you to leave me alone! Do not burden my sentence with the unpleasant sound of your voice.”

Legolas grunts and gives a pat on the horse’s hips, to urge him to speed up the pace. He doesn’t want to spend any more time with me than I do.

I admit, the last thing I said to him is a bit mean, but I don’t care. He’s a spoiled little prince, despite who knows how many centuries of life on his shoulders.

He reminds me of myself. Repressed by the power of a parent, devoted to please him. Precisely for this reason I can’t stand him.

The journey continues. It never seems to end. Green grows, the gold of the near setting sun is tinged with orange. The temperature drops abruptly and the heat that used to burn my skin gradually vanishes, replaced by a light and fragrant breeze.

As nature progresses, swallowing the paths and civilization that I have now definitively left behind, my restlessness increases. The leaves, the flowers, even the smells... they herald the entry into a wild kingdom, probably the last thing I’ll see before I die. Not a good feeling.

I’ve never been anywhere, I’ve always lived in Rohandor. Perhaps it is also for this reason that I feel a little disoriented. Even excited, albeit in the worst sense of the word.

I take a deep breath of the exquisite floral fragrances, enjoying every single aroma on the tip of my tongue. I enjoy the sun, the earth, the air, as long as I can.

Too soon, my last hopes disappear.

From afar, I see a long bridge, a bridge that connects the lush greenery of the forest to the kingdom of the elves, hidden inside a cave.

I haven’t even memorized a single stretch of the route traveled so far, and now it seems that time has slipped away too fast, despite the fact that at first it apperead unbearably slow.

Legolas dismounts and prepares to continue on foot. I am unable to do the same, and only heaven knows how much I would like to walk. I would release some tension, at least.

We take exactly thirty-three steps - I counted them - to reach the opposite side of the bridge. Welcoming, a half dozen of armored guards scattered around the perimeter, plus an elf-woman.

Once close, I study her carefully.

Her hair is very long, very smooth and brown, with a particular shade, similar to autumn leaves. Her face is long and symmetrical. The green eyes are bright but not iridescent like Legolas’. Her full lips are flat and stiff. She is tall, lithe and strong. A warrior.

They exchange greetings in their language.

The devoted look that Legolas gives to her doesn’t escape my eye. Apparently, elves also have feelings. She, however, doesn’t seem to return his attentions.

In fact, she glances at me as if _I_ were the real cause of interest, and perhaps in a way it is so. I mustn’t appear particularly dangerous to her, neither an outlaw nor a thief. It’s clear from the way she looks at me, as if the thought of confusing me with a criminal doesn’t even cross her mind.

She asks him a question to which he answers by throwing me a stern look.

I lower my eyes.

“So, this is the girl who stole a gem during guard duty,” she says in her velvety, soft voice, approaching the horse while observing me out of the corner of her eye. “I am impressed. It is not something everyone could do.”

I stare at her with hostility. “Well, obviously I’m not everyone.” Worsening the situation will certainly not make my sentence any worse.

“A smart mouth,” she comments almost as if she likes it. “She’s a hothead, apparently.”

Legolas disagrees. “It’s a facade. She performed well throughout the trip. Too well.” He glances at me with suspicious eyes.

Does he expect me to have some tricks up my sleeve that I haven’t found a way to use yet? Apparently a certain attitude is able to deceive anyone.

I wince. “I am a _kind_ thief.”

He returns the frown.

The elf-woman peers at me with thin raised eyebrows. “Are you sure it was her?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly, I’m no longer riding the horse and I feel my feet on the ground. I haven’t even seen him move. Damn, he literally flipped me upside down!

“Untie her. For today I have had enough of…” He adds something else in his mother tongue that sounds as an offense.

The elf-woman looks at me as if I were a trapped, defensless bird. The raised chin and closed fists do not help to erase that impression.

She begins to tinker with the ‘magic thread’ that surrounds my limbs.

“Your father is waiting for you in the throne hall,” she says, looking at him. “Were you successful in your quest?”

Legolas shows her the golden sack with a rare smile on his lips. “All seven.”

She stares at the sack with glowing eyes. “Thranduil will be pleased.”

Legolas weighs the sack in his hand. “He didn’t want to tell me why they are so important. His weakness for these gems has cost the lives of many men. I wonder if it was worth it.”

The elf-woman looks at me. She tilts her head down. “It is not our place to discuss the king’s orders.”

Legolas nods. “I’m going to report. You take care of her.”

“We will join you immediately.”

Legolas throws her one last intense look that she doesn’t return. His marble and perfect face is stained with a sad expression, which for an instant almost makes me feel compassion for him. It doesn’t last long.

Legolas walks briskly towards the giant blue doors and vanishes.

His absence, after so many hours, is a relief. Right now breathing isn’t so difficult anymore.

The elf-woman sets her green eyes on me. “Why did you steal the gem?”

I withdraw, taken aback.

Legolas didn’t ask me the reason for my actions, he only asked me the ‘how’, another thing I didn’t know, after which the charge of theft was implied. I didn’t expect anyone - any of _them_ \- to wonder the reason why I might have done it.

What can I answer, given that I didn’t commit the crime? I don’t know, so I have to think about it for a few moments.

Why would Quentin have to rob the elves? Out of spite? To avenge the lost honor of his people?

No, it wasn’t like him. He would have done such an act, desperate, only for justice. To show that we were vulnerable, but not totally naive or powerless.

“Because I wanted to show the people of Mord-Een that it’s possible to keep hope even through a simple act of rebellion.”

She frowns. “You’re saying you did it out of pride?”

“Why do you elves always turn simple things into complicated definitions?” I retort with a sigh. “No. I did it for justice! Those little white stones may be as old as Mirkwood and belong to your people, but for thousands of years they have dwelt in an ownerless land that has become home to a new people! The inhabitants of Mord-Een have not stolen anything from you nor have they refused anything that they didn’t consider their property. Your king, after all, couldn’t prove they belonged to him, could he? To obtain what his greedy heart desired, his army exterminated the poor people of Mord-Een, determined to keep a treasure that founded the very history of their kingdom! Tell me then, who was in the wrong, them or your king?”

She stares at me, more surprised by my words than by my anger.

“But why steal, knowing how much the Elvenking desired those gems? Why risk your life, having seen with your own eyes how far he was willing to go? Why oppose yourself a step away from freedom?”

I just don’t know what to answer to that. _Yes, why, Quentin?_

“I made a choice and I intend to face the consequences,” I say instead.

Her fixed gaze makes me feel a little uncomfortable. “What’s your name?”

“Rellél.”

She blinks her thin lashes. “What did you say?”

“Rellél. It’s my name.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she resumes fumbling with the thread that embraces my body, until she manages to untie it completely. “It’s an unusual name, that’s all.”

I don’t understand. What does she mean? That it’s unusual among elves?

“I’m Tauriel,” she adds then.

I don’t know what to say, so I nod with detachment.

“Come,” she says, giving me a warning look. “Your courage, although in good faith, will not help you here.”

I couldn’t agree more.

The kingdom of the elves is a collection of elegant caves that smell of flowers, earth and bark. It is indisputably magnificent, but not very warm. The kingdom of a people united by blood, from centuries of history and traditions. A hive closed to the rest of the world.

I rub my aching arms as my blood starts flowing again. The blood sprays my contracted limbs, and suddenly the cold I feel inside is lashed repeatedly by violent heat waves.

Then, all at once, I feel the braid swinging on my back with painful clarity, as well as Azure’s dress that wraps my body and the heavy boots that tighten my feet.

I’m scared, I tremble even, but I have no intention of showing it.

From a distance I glimpse Legolas’ long pale hair. In front of the throne, on a gold table as thin as a veil of sugar, the seven white gems shine quietly.

If Tauriel hadn’t been there to remind me of the pace of my own steps, I would have already stopped halfway, too terrified to continue. Instead I keep walking with my head held high and clenched fists.

The Elvenking is an imposing and extraordinarily beautiful man. Legolas looks a lot like him, but it doesn’t surprise me that much. Thranduil has very long platinum blonde hair, almost as long as mine. His eyes are of an iridescent light blue. Despite his elegant robes and red cape, his body appears slender, muscular and tapered. He wears a crown of branches adorned with autumn leaves, since autumn is close. The robe he wears is of a delicate moonlight silver with elaborate gold embroidery.

He is exactly as I had imagined him to be: superb and impenetrable. His stiff posture is almost intimidating. His chiseled, angular face is nothing short of unreadable. Only the eyes, Legolas’ eyes, are barely a little expressive.

King Thranduil looks up from the gems and cast his impervious gaze on Tauriel, beside me. When his sparkling eyes meet mine, I can’t resist the urge to bow my head. I feel immediately ashamed.

We stop ten paces away from his majestic throne.

Legolas turns to look at us, tilting his torso without really moving.

I peek at the gems from the corner of my eye. Despite being small, they scintillate in the absence of light. They may be beautiful and precious, but they are meaningless to me. The look I caught in Thranduil, on the other hand… is simply eager.

Thranduil addresses a guard in their incomprehensible language.

The boy… or girl?, smooth and perfect, approaches with a fluid movement, as if he were dancing, collects the stones without touching them with his skin and walks away quickly.

We are left alone in the throne hall.

Thranduil looks back at Tauriel and then at me.

“My son tells me that you tried to steal one of my gems,” he says. His voice is guttural, similar to the sound of the quarries of his kingdom: graceful on the outside, oppressive on the inside. “What ‘great’ purpose could have pushed a young woman like you, mortal, to such a wicked act?”

I look straight in front of me, a few inches to the left of his pointed ear, and don’t answer. I immediately feel his gaze sharpen, becoming more intense. A cold slap on my skin.

Tauriel intervenes. “She did it for her people.”

Thranduil pauses for another moment before turning his gaze upon her.

“An act of defiance born out of pride and honor for one’s race,” she adds swiftly. “Inexcusable, my lord, however…”

“Exactly, inexcusable,” Tranduil repeats slowly. “The girl is perfectly capable of speaking for herself, Tauriel.”

Tauriel backs off a little. “Yes, my Lord.”

Thranduil’s changing eyes return to me. “What is your name, mortal?”

“‘Mortal is a term”, I recite in a surge of bravado, repeating the words of Legolas, who looks at me puzzled. “My name is Rellél.”

Legolas glances at the king, who inclines his face with a resolute expression.

“Rellél of?” He urges.

“Rellél of Rohandor, Daughter of Thorneye.”

His face lights up with a modest flame of interest. “I know that name. Am I wrong, or has the Thorneye been a powerful house for several centuries? At least, that was the case until its unfortunate extinction occurred. They were soldiers and scholars who were renowed here, too, among my people.” He folds his hands behind his straight back. “It was unknown to me that any of them had escaped the curse that haunts their bloodline. Tell me, Rellél Daughter of Thorneye, how is it possible that you are here in front of me now, in flesh and blood?”

His wise and millennial eyes hide a shadow. As if he knew a secret that I don’t and he was basking in my ignorance. I hated that feeling.

“I’m not here to talk about my family. I’m here for my sentence,” I retort, clenching my fists against my hips. “If you want to kill me, I beg you not to delay any longer.”

Thranduil shows off a look of pure stupor. “Why would I want to kill you?”

I blink, troubled by his skeptical tone.

Even Legolas and Tauriel stare at him in bewilderment.

“Because I stole one of your gems,” I stupidly reply. He knows exactly what I did.

“But you didn’t succeed in your quest, did you?” He asks in a clear and limpid tone, sliding half a centimeter to the right. He moves like a hawk, with elegance and silently. “You were caught a few hours after you committed the crime. What satisfaction could I gain from your death?”

I shudder.

“You were escorted here with the purpose of facing certain death. This is the worst punishment I can inflict on you.” He turns his back to me, the cloak levitates following his steps, walking towards the majestic carved wooden throne. “However, a further lesson is almost due, given the recklessness of a crime that nearly cost the lives of your people.”

Legolas looks down, composed.

Now I finally understand. The promise to free the survivors of the attack did not come from the king: it was his order. His initiative, because, as I had guessed from the beginning, Legolas was different from his father. Maybe even a better man.

Thranduil continues to speak, my buzzing ears prevent me from hearing his words.

“…How should I punish you for your thoughtlessness?”

The blood rushes to my head. He’s treating me with condescension, with bogus respect. His pride is all the encouragment I need to express an opinion that I had promised myself never, ever to utter.

“You talk about punishing _me_...” I say quietly, and as I continue to speak my voice grows in volume. “...to teach a mortal how it is lawful to behave not only towards your people, but also towards one’s own!” I take a step forward; the guards don’t take their eyes off me. “You are nothing but a vain hypocrite!”

His astonished reaction does not stop me, it can’t hold me back.

I don’t care about my fate. For the entire day I believed that I would not see another sunrise.

“How can you understand why I did what I did? How?!” I scream.

Legolas and Tauriel exchange a glance.

“You consider yourself better than me, and I can understand that to a degree. Not for your lineage, but for your right to reign, a right that should come from the merit of a good heart, not from bloodline! How dare you think you are better than men? Better than my people? And why? Because you are immortal? Because you are a king? A _term_ and a title do not make you worthy to consider yourself above the world! No, you have impregnated the kingdom of Mord-Een with innocent blood. You are nothing but a cruel, insensitive and repulsive creature!”

His hand snaps and his sword brushes my bare throat. He hasn’t moved from his throne, yet it hangs over me. The blade is cold and hisses against my ear. I shiver but refuse to bow my head.

His face is filled with anger. Fury and surprise glow in his bright eyes.

“How… dare you?!” He roars. “Those gems belong to me! No one else could claim the right to own them!”

“You could have bargained for peace instead of war,” I object.

His face gets closer and austere. He may have thousands of years of life on his shoulders, but to my eyes he looks barely over thirty years old. A man disguised in immortal spoils.

“We tried to find a middle ground with the protectors of Mord-Een. Compromises and offers have had no effect. They did not want gold or the promise of a quiet exchange of favors. Their gluttony was their undoing. Now tell me, _Rellél_ ,” he pronounces my name as if it were a disgusting thing, a bad word. “…Whose fault is it for the end of the reign that you insist so much on defending?”

My eyes become moist with tears of rage. “What you call ‘greed’ was simply a sense of honor and a mere instinct for self-preservation.” I take advantage of his incredulous silence to continue. “Would you allow a man or a dwarf to ask you for the crown in exchange for the promise of a fair and quiet exchange?”

His closed expression answers my question.

“Obviously not. Likewise, you haven’t left the people of Mord-Een any choice. Those gems may be yours, but their existence has allowed the construction of a kingdom that, unaware or not of your involuntary gift, has thrived for centuries thanks to it. How could they abandon what they believed to be the heart of their history?”

“What’s past is past. There is no way to change it.” He sheathes the sword with an invisible shift. “Save your wrath for another day. Wars will continue to sprout despite your blame.”

Anger burns my throat. “It was their treasure, all they had left to keep a kingdom in ruins alive, and you took it away from them!”

His light blue eyes, cold and condescending until a moment ago, open wide. I had surprised him again, and I didn’t care.

“I was hoping that a journey towards his death would teach the stealer not to take what doesn’t belong to him. Apparently I was wrong.” He looks at Tauriel. “Escort her to the prisons. We’ll see how much of her bitterness will survive after a couple of nights spent in a cell!”

Tauriel, face tense, grabs me by the arm.

Legolas stares at an indistinct point to the left of the throne, masking his reaction.

“NO!” I scream at the top of my lungs.

Thranduil glances at me unperturbed, with a hint of mocking laughter on his lips. “Once again your stupidity has been fatal to you. You could have returned to your lost kingdom without a single scratch.” He sinks into the throne. “Now you will know my anger and you will see _how cruel I can be._ ”

I understand only belatedly the meaning of his words.

Certain death, the promise of a return, imprisonment... this was his real punishment. He’d been manipulating me the whole time. At the end of the day, was I really that predictable?

The last thing I see before being dragged down the steep slope is Legolas bowing ceremoniously before his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back! I’ve enjoyed a vacation at the beach and now I’m back to work!
> 
> I have nothing in particular to say about this chapter, except that the first interaction between the Elvenking and Relle was quite intense, wasn’t it?  
> Who knows what will happen in the future chapters...


	6. The cells within Woodland Realm

Lying on the cold floor of my prison, I stare at the ceiling with almost forced concentration. I’m trying hard not to dwell upon my situation, to feel anything, but it’s tremendously difficult. Every so often I believe that I’m finally about to collapse and fall asleep, but anger, anguish and sadness keep me wide awake and alert.

To pass the time, I try to make sense of the cracks that furrow the rocky walls of the cell: in those non-existent intertwining I see the profile of a knight aiming with his bow from afar at a big apple placed above the head of another man, and immediately beside a flowery forest full of hobbits playing with a ball of cloth. My imagination runs wild to distract me from the small space engulfing me and the impression that it is slowly stealing my breath away.

I let a few tears fall as I close my eyes and finally surrender to fatigue.

The darkness of my eyelids is not enough to turn off my thoughts. I would love to sleep, rest my mind a little, and yet my body quivers with nervous restlessness. My stomach’s in a knot, my throat feels dry and my body is rigid like a board. I feel watched, almost under threat. The fault lies with the watchful guards not far from my cell, motionless as statues, and with the hoarse cries of the other prisoners who invoke curses and promise horrible repercussions on whom had imprisoned them.

My breathing slowly begins to slow down.

It is a hazy dream, not at all restorative, but still, it’s more than I could ask for at the moment.

I’m floating above an icy mountain. It’s freezing up here and the autumn leaves of nearby trees are rapidly turning into smooth, twisted skeletons covered in snow.

A few hours later I open my eyes again at the insistent sound of a gentle ringing.

I’m lying on my right side, my back to the door. I look over. The light outside has vanished, replaced by the warm, floating glow of the torches.

Stunned, I look at the person - or rather, the elf - who came to visit me.

Tauriel holds a silver tray complete with soup and fresh fruit. She gives me a faint smile. “Dinner.”

I stare at her in amazement as with a casual flick of the wrist she slips the keys into the lock and opens the cell.

The smell of food numbs me. Suddenly, I am assailed by pangs of hunger. I observe the fruits, juicy and inviting.

Tauriel places the tray on the floor, near my legs.

In order not to give satisfaction to the king (a stupid thought, since he can’t see me) I take the bread with extreme sluggishness and pick up a single spoonful of cereal soup.

Tauriel watches me for a moment, her smile fading little by little. She doesn’t say a word while I eat.

The flavor is velvety and rich. I close my eyes enjoying the feeling of a full stomach.

At the end of the meal, Tauriel gets up with a fluid movement and walks out of the cell.

“Thank you,” I murmur with my eyes fixed on the plate.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her changing position and turning towards the bars that draw a complex tangle between our faces. Her lips, previously flat, curve into another faint smile. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning with breakfast.”

“Why are you being so kind to me?”

She waits a moment before answering, as if to clear her thoughts and formulate the right words. “Because you haven’t done anything wrong.”

I neither deny nor confirm. “But why are you helping me?” I insist.

This time, her hesitation lasts only a second. “Because I know how it feels like when you are faced with a prejudicial and impartial judgment.”

I can’t possibly know exactly what she is referring to, but I think she means being a female guard: I haven’t seen anyone like her, only males. It must be hard to build a reputation by striving to keep it intact and proving your worth, especially in a world ruled by men.

“Thank you,” I repeat, this time a little louder.

Tauriel nods. She lingers on the threshold for another moment, then leaves.

I keep eating my soup, in silence and lethargically. Soon the rumbling in my belly subsides. I’m still a little hungry but I decide to keep the fruits for the night; I have already finished the water in the glass and I have no supplies for the night. I only eat one, just to get rid of the dryness in my throat.

I lie on my side, with my back to the cell, the guards, the other prisoners and the insistent light of the torches. The soil is hard and compact, uncomfortable. I feel pain all over my body, but I’m too tired to resist it. So I let it overwhelm me. After a while it becomes even easy to ignore it.

Now that the body has been satiated and is ready to rest, the mind is filled with woeful thoughts. My eyes fill with tears as I think of my family, Galen and Azure, Quentin… I’ll never see them again. This was the plan at the beginning, because by accepting the death sentence I would have left them anyway. But this is different. I’m still alive and they must have abandoned all hope for me by now. Had they buried something of mine, as per tradition, in the absence of a body to say goodbye to?

Unless I was blessed by a miracle… I would rot in that cell for the rest of my days. What were a couple of years, a miserable century for the elves? _Nothing._ For me, however, they were everything. All the time I had available to miss the people I loved and had left in the foolish hope of doing the right thing, of acting like a hero instead of sinking into the uncomfortable role of the ungainly damsel in distress.

I should have expected it, I suppose. Women are not heroes, they are just the crutch of men.

How true could that be, though, if I was now there in that cell? I hadn’t stolen the gem, that’s true, but I had made a people known for their wisdom and astuteness that I was responsible for the theft. I had fooled them, and it hadn’t been too difficult either. An involuntary test and an admission had sufficed. A sacrifice had sufficed.

I had faced a long journey with the knowledge that I was going to meet death and, despite the tears, I hadn’t begged to save my life even once. In fact, I had tried to speed things up by rushing a prince.

And above all, I had succeeded in the dangerous and unfathomable intent of making a king lose his temper without losing my head. And not just any king, but the feared and merciless Elvenking, Thranduil King of the Elves. My words had been able to bewilder and outrage him. In his eyes I was nothing more than a miserable insect to be treated with caution exclusively for its frail nature, he shouldn’t have given any importance to my words ... Instead, the fact that I gave them a value had forced him to do the same.

I had insulted his honor, and as much as a king must always ignore his honor for the benefit of his people and peace, that hazard had led him to punish me for real by having me imprisoned in the gloomy cells of Woodland Realm.

I feel a sudden surge of pride.

Maybe, after all, I’m braver than I imagine. That spark of rebellion that has accompanied me throughout my life and that has largely conditioned the relationship with my mother flares up in my spirit like a powerful will-o’-the-wisp.

The fervor that pervade my chest forces me to go back to my stomach, my back pressed to the floor. I take shallow breathes, overwhelmed by emotions.

It doesn’t really matter whether my sacrifice served its purpose or not. It doesn’t matter if my decision to interfere was foolish or useless.

I made a choice _with my heart_. I could never regret this.

For as long as I’ll have to reside in Mirkwood prisons, I’ll be at peace with myself, because I know I did the right thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feminism is not intended as a central topic of the story, although in its own way it is relevant: Relle grew up knowing that sooner or later her destiny involved a husband and children, and of course at this stage of her life she starts to raise questions, to rebel against this rigid way of thinking, to seek her way out of abstract social schemes and the common motto “we’ve always done that way”. This is why her respect for Tauriel is instantaneous, as are her amazement and admiration.


	7. Omen of war

At midnight on the third day of captivity, I desist from stubbornly counting the hours. There is no point in taking into account the time that passes when I’m sure that I will not get out of here alive. By the swing of a sword or the simple flow of days, sooner or later my flame will burn out.

I’m not afraid. From the moment I recognized my strength, instead of paying attention to my too many weaknesses, I stopped worrying about what will become of me. I haven’t changed fundamentally, I just feel… more confident. Free to be brave. A priceless freedom in my world.

Tauriel brings me breakfast again - plenty of fruit, honey and a glass of water - and wastes more of her time talking to me. I don’t understand why she keeps doing this, and in all honesty I don’t even care to know. I’ve always repelled loneliness, so futile chatter is more than welcome.

And then, her calm, proud and resolute air push me to try to behave in the same way. She really is a great example to follow.

Unfortunately, a week later she is given a mission that forces her to leave Mirkwood for a couple of days. I suspect that Thranduil has learned of her visits in the cells, of our rambling encounters, and that for this reason he has assigned her a mission that will force her as far away as possible from here.

Before departing, Tauriel leaves me a sack full of provisions that will last for at least a week. It seems she doesn’t plan to be away any longer than that.

Again, I don’t know how to thank her. Again, I don’t understand the meaning of her obstination in persevering in speaking to me. And again, I don’t care to know.

Thus, three days after Tauriel’s departure, I begin to feel overwhelmed by the weight of my isolation. Time passes slowly, almost as if to spite me… or maybe that’s just the way time goes by here in the Land of the Elves. Densely and lazily, drop by drop.

Some prisoners are taken away and never return. Requests for a ‘meeting with the king’ have been granted, I suppose. They won’t leave this place alive.

A couple of times I’m tempted to imitate them, look out the bars and shout with all the breath in my lungs that I demand to speak with the king... Maybe he would feel more inclined to put an end to my suffering if I begged him.

Each day is incredibly even more monotonous than the last. I ration fruit and vegetables in order to delay as much as possible the moment when I’ll find myself writhing plagued by hunger pangs... if Tauriel does not come back in time, that is.

The only time I’m allowed to escape the motionless guards in front of the cells is when I have to use the restroom. Their surveillance is irreproachable but not without a certain regard which, if they were mortal, I would almost call shyness.

Two weeks after Tauriel’s leave, something unexpected happens.

I was convinced that her return was imminent and just as imminent the end of my loneliness, but when the approaching footsteps turn into a face, all my hopes implode into darkness.

The guard - long hair, smooth and perfect face, male - opens the cell and quickly steps away. His movements are weighted and fluid. His build, like for all elves, is slender and resilient. Elves are leaves in the wind: rigid and deferential, they can change direction in the blink of an eye.

Too confused to move, I just ask: “Where is Tauriel?”

“King Thranduil demands your presence in the throne room,” he replies flatly.

Naturally it had taken almost three weeks, a month, for him to remember the little unpunished human locked up in his prisons. An entire moon had passed. Truthfully, I was surprised that it took him so little time to remember my existence.

What was he going to do? He could let me go or he could cut my head off. One way or the other, I would’ve been freed from the burden of that cage.

I get escorted through the winding path, one of the many, up the prisons. Illuminated caves, without doors or windows, follow one another like the golden cells of a beehive. I ignore the spitting screams and crude insults of the prisoners; I’ve sort of got used to them.

I’m a bit unsteady on my legs: walking back and forth through the restricted space of a cell is not the same as a _proper walk_. Will the king notice that I am over-fed after nearly three weeks in captivity, the last fourteen days spent without Tauriel’s help? He might commandeer my supplies… although, sadly, there aren’t many left anyway.

As soon as I step into the throne room, I immediately feel untidy. It’s silly of me, I know, but I can’t help it. My hair is a stiff and disheveled braid, the dress a blanket covered in dust, the shoes a pair of stones tightened around my swollen ankles, my pale and sleepless face is the mask of a tangible ghost. The fullness of my cheeks and the energy that I infuse with each step help to smooth a little the impression that I must have been tortured every second day.

Thranduil is facing the opposite way, his long silver robe glides like a wave of fresh water on the smooth dark wooden floor. He’s wearing the crown girdled with autumn leaves, his long pale hair rains like a soft and silky cascade down his straight back. He’s looking at the throne with a glassy and solemn gaze.

I automatically find myself straightening my shoulders. I don’t want to look exhausted because of my curved back or limp because of my dangling arms, even if I feel both things.

The guard leaves as soon as he has completed his task. Other guards take his place, arranged around the majestic throne. They stubbornly stare blankly ahead. Humans are by nature expressive and curious, by now they would have already examined me with a look eager for answers. But not them, they’re totally indifferent.

I clench my fists like I always do when I’m nervous. I stay silent. It was he who demanded my presence, so he must be the first to break the silence.

More endless minutes pass until, with almost a bored sigh, Thranduil takes the floor.

“You look well after these last few weeks spent in prisons,” he says.

His irony is cold and sharp. An observation disguised as a comment.

I decide to give him a taste of his own medicine. “Thank you.”

His gaze flickers in my direction. His marble face, flawless, is impassive and indifferent.

“You made a friend here.” He mocks me. “An ally.”

“Is that why you send her away?”

“Don’t overestimate your importance,” he replies with detachment. “Tauriel had a more important task to perform elsewhere.” His expression is concentrated, almost meditative. “She feels very… similar to you. For some reason that defies me.” His iridescent eyes light up with a biting glow. “But I suppose she served your purpose in the end. Here you are, in flesh and blood.”

“I had no purpose. Don’t you know the meaning of the word kindness?”

“Kindness is a more delicate term to describe a form of weakness.”

_A cynical soul... I feel sorry for you._ I’d love to say it out loud, but I can’t. Pitying a king would really cost me my head, and I still haven’t given up on the possibility to keep it attached to my neck.

“I assume you will fix the problem yourself,” I say instead.

“Once again, you’re overestimating your importance. You are here because I want answers.”

“Answers to what?”

He takes a step towards the throne, before stopping and glancing back at me. “I received news from Mord-Een this dawn.”

My heart leaps in my chest. I can’t even imagine what kind of expression my face is showing right now.

“It appears that, after my soldiers withdrew, the survivors didn’t abandoned the castle walls. Indeed, there have been significant exchanges between Mord-Een and Rohandor. The thing itself wouldn’t have caught my attention if the mayor of Rohandor hadn’t contacted the neighboring kingdom, including the distant dwarf city of Beo-Durr.”

The confusion on my face must be obvious, because his eyes tighten at the edges.

“I suspect that those fools are planning a retaliation against me.”

“Why should they?”

“Isn’t it obvious? They believe that I had you executed.”

I swallow. It can’t be.

Thranduil climbs the elegant carved wooden staircase and sits on the throne. He has an intense and brooding look on his face. Inexplicable.

“Your death has created an irremediable rift between Men and Elves. I wonder why,” he reflects. “Politics is everything these days. Kings cannot afford imprudent enmities. I do not consider your people a threat worthy of my consideration. Nevertheless, I cannot underestimate their intentions.”

“For more than a century our city has lived in peace. Why should they declare war now? What’s that got to do with me?”

Thranduil’s face is focused, brimming with unanswerable questions.

“Tell me, Rellél of Thorneye, what is your true value?”

It takes me a moment to understand the meaning of his words. I frown.

“My true value?” I mumble.

“They wouldn’t have gone this far for any companion-in-arms who fell in battle. So, I wonder, why did they decide to do it for _you_?”

I’m so astounded by the news that I can’t get my thoughts straight. I have no words, I feel dumb inside. I shake my head, too shaken to articulate any words.

“I-I… I d-don’t…” I stammer.

His glacial, austere gaze is full of distrust and doubt.

I stick my nails into my palms; the pain manages to distract me a little. “I do not know,” I repeat without uncertainty.

“Is that so?” He urges.

I look up and answer staring straight into his cold eyes, bright as diamonds. “I have no answers for you.”

He’s not satisfied in the least. He thinks for a moment, in silence.

His every single expression is indolent, proud and arrogant. My tolerance of arrogant spirits has always been low: how can a heart full of vanity and ambition reign rightly?

He gives me a staid, emotionless look. “Don’t misunderstand my words. I do not fear going into a final confrontation with those fools… it would be like saying that a colony of ants can intimidate a beehive. I just don’t want to find myself in the position of being forced to harm them. Wars bring only chaos and death. And contrary to what others say, I don’t favor bloodshed.” His sidelong glance flickers in my direction, as if trying to trap me. “Evidently Thorneye’s influence is greater than I thought. They intend to avenge a daughter for an unjust death that never was. I wonder if it is an act worthy of my praise, or pure and simple idiocy.”

I press my upper lip against the lower one, biting the inside of my cheeks.

“It struck me as my proper duty to share with you the intentions of your people,” he adds.

“If you free me, you’ll stop the war before it begins. They will give up on any purpose of revenge if they are permitted to know that I’m still alive.”

“Or they could gather the nerve to finish the work and _you_ could guide them here,” he contradicts me harshly, gravely.

“I’m not familiar with these lands. I know Mirkwood by name, as well as my fellow citizens, but I totally ignore the location of your kingdom. I wouldn’t remember the road even if I wanted to. And don’t forget I was ready to die by coming here; I haven’t even memorized a single stretch of the journey traveled, because it wouldn’t have made any difference.”

Of course I had always known I was a mortal being, yet when I’d found myself before the elves, potentially immortal creatures, I’d felt as tiny, helpless and vulnerable as an infant. Such a feeling cannot be forgotten.

Thranduil keeps glaring at me suspiciously, harshly. “So you’re asking me to trust you?” He murmurs, a deep crease of skeptical sarcasm in his dark voice.

“No, because _I_ don’t trust you,” I reply. “But I think it is now clear that I would do anything, _anything_ , for the good of my people. I can prove to them that I’m alive, that I am safe.”

“And?”

“And what?”

His eyes narrow again, the shadow of a smile, barely a hint on his marble lips. “Do you really expect me to give you the opportunity to deceive me? To betray a possible agreement?”

“Why would I do that?” I cry out in a low voice, feeling exasperated.

“The real question is: why wouldn’t you? You may be devoted to your people, but this does not change the reality of the facts. There are many of your kind who crave my head, and few of them with whom, over the years, I have made friendship and trust treaties. And you, _thief_ , are certainly not one of them.”

I clench my jaw. “I didn’t steal that stupid gem!”

I finally said it.

The relief I feel, however, is less than expected. The circumstance is too fatal, if not catastrophic, compared to the circumstances that led me to lie, to take upon myself the blame for the theft. I can’t find solace in my own admission of innocence.

Thranduil, on the other hand, while still looking suspicious and wary, doesn’t seem perturbed that much.

“You knew...” I whisper.

He remains silent.

I’m stunned, too much to leave room for anger and indignation. “And you punished me anyway. Why?”

“Why did you take the blame for a crime you didn’t commit? Obviously you know the person responsible for the theft and you care for his safety. To the point of marching to your death of your own free will. An admirable gesture, I grant you this, even if it has automatically made you his accomplice.” His inclemency has no bounds.

A gush of bile choke me for a second. “I only took the fall for preventing your soldiers from causing further damage where there has already been death and devastation.”

His expression does not change even a bit as with his long, tapered fingers he traces the outlines of the long carved branches of the throne.

“You can punish me for the rest of my existence, forget me in a cell and let my body rot... but please, I beg you... let me save my people.”

Now that I take a closer look at him, I notice that he’s more than vexed: he’s reluctant.

He must be thinking that I’m some kind of mad masochist who longs for disaster... the reality is much less grim, though: the race of Men have seen and experienced too much unjustified death, caused by conflicts and disagreements with other peoples. We brought a lot of it ourselves. And I’ve never tolerated this. I grew up believing that I wanted to help others, and I became interested in medicine for a very specific reason: to help save people.

This is who I am, I can’t help it. It would be so much easier if I were a bloodthirsty egoist like everyone else. But I am not and I could never become one.

“I’m not a fighter but I can fight for them. If I can avoid a war, so be it,” I say firmly.

Thranduil leans forward, towards me. I take a step back from his ecstatic, anguished face, almost as if he was in physical pain. He tries to compose himself, I can see it clearly, but he fails.

“What is this?” He asks, towering over me with his colossal presence. A hawk pointing a tiny bird. “ _What is it that I see in you?_ Something I’ve forgotten… something I can’t quite remember.” His breathing becomes hoarse and heavy. “The white gems... what is your bond with them?”

I shake my head. “I have no connection with them.”

“Lies!” He roars. His expression is nothing short of terrifying.

I jump back. “No! I’m telling you I have not robbed you!”

“Then who did it?”

Mi jaw closes abruptly. I would never put Quentin in danger, not even to avoid a war... And that, I realize with some bitterness, doesn’t make me better than the King of the Elves.

He examines me carefully, without haste.

“I don’t know,” I say slowly, convincing myself that it’s the truth, that I really don’t know. “And it doesn’t matter. If you let me go... I promise you there will be no war.”

My statement does not convince him. He pulls his shoulders back, relaxing his face muscles. His features return flat and rigid, smooth, pale and inexpressive.

“No,” he says.

“No?”

“You said it yourself. There is no possibility that your people will find this place and wage war on it. They are outnumbered, lacking any skill or competence in battle. Even with the support of some dwarf they would still result pathetically weak.” He hints a smile before darkening again. “They pose no more threat to me than a swarm of flies.”

“Are you ready to take the risk?” I know what he says makes sense and I’m ashamed to admit that any attempt by the two kingdoms to wage war against the elven people would be totally ineffective. Precisely for this reason I cannot allow that to happen. “Are you ready to bet your life on it?” I insist, trying not to show the terror I feel.

He remains unperturbed. “And you?”

My nostrils flare as anger builds up inside my chest. Before I realize what I’m doing, I find myself marching towards the throne. The guards stare at me without moving a muscle, ready to block me at any moment.

“You can’t do this!” I cry out at the top of my lungs. “I won’t let you!”

At this point the guards draw their spears in unison. With an invisible motion they stand in front of me, crossing the golden sticks in front of my face.

Thranduil is livid with rage, yet determined to maintain his guarded and indifferent air.

“You won’t allow it?” He says slowly, almost with a hiss. “It was _you_ who caused all this. You made yourself an accomplice in a theft against my race, and for this you were justly punished. None of this would have ever happened if your people had lived up to our deal. The gems in exchange for their life. Their kingdom in exchange for what’s rightfully _mine_. You accuse me of having provoked the anger of your people... and perhaps it is so. All the same, I did not aggravate the already dire circumstances in which the survivors of Mord-Een found themselves. I’ve allowed Rohandor to assist the wounded and deliver food to the hungry. I am not a cruel man, regardless of what others say. As a matter of fact it was you, you and your accomplice, who brought down the agreement and caused all this. Cruelty has many ways of manifesting itself, many faces.”

I withdraw, dismayed. Because he’s right, he’s right as rain. Even so, he can’t put all the blame on Quentin and me. Mistake or no mistake, he was the one who started this war.

But again, I can’t convince myself that this is the absolute truth. Mord-Een still had refused to compromise with the elves for the return of a treasure that, apparently, was owned by none other than the Elvenking himself.

So who was really responsible for this? And did it matter at that point?

“The truth is, they used your alleged demise to declare war. Since the only inevitable consequence of war is vengeance,” he urges.

“You’re playing the blame game,” I say, and I watch as his face instantly becomes filled with incredulous offense; a crude old saying appropriate for the situation. “You can blame all you want, you can make me feel as much a monster as you want. The ‘reality of the facts’, as you called it, is that you waged war against my people for a couple of stupid pebbles. Oh, but I have no doubt that they have a value for you,” I add hastily, catching his furious grimace.

Thranduil leans towards me once again, his hands gripping the tangled branches of the throne. “Rellél daughter of Thorneye... do you know the meaning of your name?”

Amazement dampens my anger a little.

His face distorts into a wicked scowl that I’ve never seen before on his face, and that frightens me.

“In my language it means _mud that suffocates flowers_. Among my people it is an omen of misfortune and disease. So think about it, child. Who caused all this?”

I run out of breath, at a loss for words.

It was I who lied, it was I who suffered a punishment that led my family and probably Quentin on the path to war, and it was always me who challenged the Elvenking by fueling his rage towards my people... the plague, the disease.

At his gesture the guards grab me and escort me back to the prisons. I cannot rebel and neither do I want to. Not this time.

***

I spend the night sleeplessly, crying.

I would much rather prefer to convince myself that the tears that wet my cheeks are of anger, of hatred for the King of the Elves, but deep down I know that they belong exclusively to myself.

Kings are kings, accustomed to wars and concerns of unimaginable responsibility... rarely compassionate, constantly on alert... attached with the flesh and spirit to honor and pride... they always have been and always will be. How could I blame Thranduil for his decision to refrain from taking a stand in a situation I had caused, even though I found his motives unfair?

No, I only had to blame myself.

I feel terribly guilty. Until three weeks ago I believed I was a heroine, that I had done a good deed with negative consequences only for myself, and that I had, in this way, saved a good people and my family. That thought had kept me going. Instead, I’d apparently provoked a riot, already conceived at the very moment Mord-Een had fallen, and completed with my supposed demise. I’d made things worse, albeit unintentionally and in good faith. My reckless and impulsive actions had compromised two realms.

Azure was right: a lot of things can change in three weeks.

And things could only get worse.

***

The dream comes back to visit me. It’s becoming redundant.

I’m floating on the peak of a mountain of rough white stone and blithe blue highlights, a thousand miles from my cell, from Rohandor, from Woodland Realm, from anywhere else. From my position I can see the dark and jagged profile of other mountains. A few snowflakes cut through the air, the winter sky is covered by stormy clouds.

A chorus of female voices rises from the highest point of the peak. The sound of their words, so harmonious and incisive, seems to be Sindarin, the language of the elves; I recognize it because I’ve heard Tauriel and Legolas, as well as the guards, use it often. They are unfamiliar words whispered in the whipping wind, which soothe its howl, gathering in a globe of silence around the peak.

I look down and see seven figures wrapped in silky silver tunics, glittering in the night like stars, gathered around an altar of shiny black stone. They are elf women. The white fire I saw last time is gone. It seems… wrong, somehow. The basin inside the altar, where the gems were previously placed, is now empty. A dry mouth.

Their interlocked hands untwine, and the one who appears to be the oldest in the company, despite her smooth face and elegant bun of shiny silver-blond hair, heaves a heavy, weary sigh. Her ice blue eyes, almost translucent, are surrounded by a thick web of expressive wrinkles. As if she’d cried often in her long life. 

“We’re done,” she speaks severely. “All our hopes are gone. Seven of us remain, seven gems must be buried.”

Another elf walks to stand next to her, her long bark-colored hair tied in a tight ponytail. “Orien is already on her way. She will bury them where no one will ever find them.”

“I am not worried about the kingdom of Men. It is the safest place at the moment, since no one, neither in victory nor in defeat, ever addresses them as guardians, as the unsuspecting custodians of an ancient legend. No, Men wouldn’t know what to do with the gems. But there are other individuals… creatures… who crave those gems. One is still missing, even after all these centuries.”

“Are you referring to the dwarves, Sister Auress?”

Sister Auress tightens her eyelids. “Not just them, Sister Himelthel. A greedy heart can be tamed by compromise. But a greedy heart, wounded… it is unstoppable and can prove to be destructive.”

Sister Himelthel contracts her upper lip over her teeth. “ _He_ wouldn’t dare challenge us.”

“Oh, yes he would,” Sister Auress contradicts her harshly. “He lost his wife, Himelthel. He will come here sooner or later. But he won’t find the gems.”

My field of vision begins to narrow. The snow thickens, the wind returns to howl. I see their lips articulating other words, but I can no longer hear their voices. There is too much wind.

The mountain moves away, their tunics turn into little stars twinkling in the night.

Suddenly, Sister Auress’s blue, inquisitive eyes dart at me.

My heart leaps into my throat. _How come she can see me?_

As I float, I try to move my arms to attract her attention. She remains firm and impassive. No, she doesn’t see me.

This is the last thought I have before opening my eyes to the light of the new morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first pictured Relle I saw this pale and petite young woman, with a long black braid, a mouth small, full and pink, and big, clear, piercing green-greyish eyes. Fergus, her brother, is handsome and charismatic, with black hair and blue eyes, the total opposite.  
> Relle is fundamentally selfless and modest. She’s not beautiful or talented, but she’s intelligent and braver than she thinks. I imagine her as a late bloomer, or an unripe fruit. The contraposition is quite strong, because following this example, Thranduil would be a golden, majestic tree with breathtaking flowers and big, perfect fruits.  
> She doesn’t have a strong character, but she doesn’t lack personality and has a good heart.  
> When Relle was little she used to ask many, many questions to her mother, who couldn’t answer or really understand her curiosity for the world.  
> Everytime I see her face in my mind as I write, I see this open, vulnerable, frail expression that makes her look like a child, but also, progressively, a gracious and evolving young woman.  
> Relle is obviously not the classic strong and leading main character, but I hope someone can sympathize with her nonetheless. 
> 
> Ah!, there was another important thing I wanted to clarify: when Greta accused Relle of not being a proper lady, of not cooking or cleaning the house, obviously it wasn’t entirely true: Greta is a neurotic and anxious character, therefore no one really has the time to do anything around the house because she’s always releasing her energy by doing both her chores and others’, without even realizing it. Of course Relle does her own part, too... whenever she has room to try, that is! 
> 
> P. S. Naturally Rellél isn’t a word present in the vocabulary of Middle Earth; it’s a word of my invention. It’s a very ancient term, quite unpopular, with no certain origin.
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely kudos❤️ and support!


	8. Thranduil’s verdict

Four days after the sentence, another guard comes to escort me before the king.

I’m the only prisoner who has never request an audience with the Elvenking and I am the only one who has already obtained _two_ ; it’s perfectly comprehensible that I gained the grudges of the other prisoners. Their choleric roars are proof of that.

I don’t know what to think anymore. I feel torn between the anguish of receiving more bad news about the impending war between the elves and my people, a war that Thranduil apparently has no intention of stopping or facing, and the hope of an immediate release.

As I slip out of the cell I get unexpectedly dizzy - I haven’t eaten since the other night because, regrettably, my last food supplies have run out. But that’s not the thing that disturbs me the most. As the guard precedes me down the stairs, the prisoner two cells from mine, a half troll, reaches out his hairy, earthy-gray hand and grabs me abruptly. It’s so big that it fills all the space in the cell. Its shoulder is attached to its deformed face, a destabilizing factor.

“ _You’ll burn,_ ” he roars in his hideous hollow voice. “ _You’ll burn with them and I’ll feast on your bones._ ”

I shudder violently, shocked to the point that I don’t move an inch or try to escape from its iron grip. I simply stare into its black eyeballs, its monstrous face furrowed with greasy wrinkles and ugly scars.

The guard hits it with his spear, an invisible blow that forces it to back off brusquely. Immediately the troll throws itself with all its weight against the bars, bellowing like an enraged beast. The earth trembles under our feet.

I can feel its little malevolent eyes following me up the bridge-path, until we turn around the corner. My skin tingles and my heart’s in my throat. I break out in a cold sweat.

After a while, I realize that this time we’re not headed for the throne hall. The pathway is different, it goes down rather than up. Somehow the light, penetrating from the numerous openings in the caves, illuminates all areas of the kingdom. The sweet, floral scents make my mouth water.

The guard escorts me to an airy wing that smells of streams, flowers, trees and moss. It’s quiet and somewhat soothing. Quite the opposite of my tiny damp, malodorous cell.

The guard withdraws before I have the time to ask where we are; I’d really like to know.

King Thranduil stands beside a tall, rounded white column. He does not wear the crown, which confuses me a little. His pale and very smooth hair shines in the light, his iridescent eyes glow with soft reflections like running water under the sun. He wears a long light green robe with dense elaborate silver embroideries.

This time I choose to speak immediately and first. “News from Mord-Een?”

“Why else would you be here?” He replies, staring at me sideways, out of the corner of his eye.

I shrug.

“Yes,” he says slowly, like honey slipping on a leaf. “Unfortunately for you this is not good news. According to my sources, Rohandor and Mord-Een are planning a consistent attack. With a kingdom on their side and the support of the dwarves of Beo-Durr, the whole situation is starting to get… bothersome.”

I feel a smile linger around the edges of my mouth. “You didn’t expect a takeover in such a short time.”

He doesn’t like my remark. He gives me a haughty, icy look. This time, however, he finds me prepared.

“It took them less than a month to gather an army solid enough to alarm your spies...” Not sources, no. “They don’t pose a threat to you yet, but they are still enough of a nuisance to make you nervous. You don’t tolerate being offended, and their open hostility is certainly a form of offense.” The smile is born and dies on my lips. “The support of the dwarves was a nice touch from Titus Beo-Durr.”

His head cocks to the side. “The Follower of the Dwarves. Do you know him?”

The brief moment of selfish relief fades away. “We still have time. Let me go and _I swear_ that I will prevent this war.”

His gaze slides over my face, towards the opposite wall. “It would be useless at this point. Your restitution would not prevent war. There is no way to stop an idea when it takes full possession of a mind clouded by emotions. In war, feelings are never an advantage. Indeed, more often than not they cause more disasters than swords.”

I clench my fists. “Why tell me, then? To torture me, knowing that there is nothing I can do to prevent a war I have caused?”

He glances at me again, clearly annoyed. “You either continue to overestimate your importance, or you truly believe you’re responsible for the turn of these events. Both hypotheses confirm my opinion about you.”

“That would be?”

“You’re a fool.”

My eyes widen. “You said it yourself! If I hadn’t taken the blame for a crime I didn’t commit, if I had shown you due respect”, I spit this last word through gritted teeth, “...instead of contempt, at this time...”

“Things wouldn’t be different,” he flatly contradicts me. “Men can be single-minded and obtuse. Their arrogance consists in not recognizing when the time has come to let the drop fall.”

“Oh, please...” I mutter quietly.

He stares at me, once again dumbfounded, taken by surprise.

“You are no better than them!” Everything about him, every single little thing, conveys proud haughtiness and profound distrust... a sovereign so focused and fixed exclusively on his own kingdom certainly cannot understand my desire for peace, if not solely for reasons of poor diplomacy. “Instead of using me, you’re willing to go to war, a war that will bring venom and death to both of our peoples! You can be part of the problem or part of the solution. Why are you choosing to do nothing?”

“The need for a war would not have been born in the first place if you hadn’t contributed to fueling the reason why it was generated.” His voice is as sharp as a blade, as piercing as an arrow.

I stick my nails into my palms so that he can’t see my hands shaking. “Then kill me.”

His anger fades, his expression flattens. He looks away, returning to observe the autumn light that filters into the cave. “For what purpose? As far as I’m concerned, you’re not useful to me either alive or dead. Instead of hastening this kind of decisions, I find it conveniently wiser to ponder and wait.”

I take a step forward. “I don’t know why you’re stalling… for some reason you want me here… I really don’t know. But you can be sure of one thing: I will not stand in your presence to take all the responsibilities of a war that I have not started _only_ by myself. You can mock me as much as you want, I will no longer behave like a martyr. The sense of guilt finds no place in my heart as much as the will to remedy. I am not _obtuse_.” I regained my courage as soon as I realized that my mistakes have caused a disaster, as much as his own. I have no reason to feel more responsible than him. Because I, unlike him, am ready to do what is necessary and capable of becoming part of the solution to the problem.

His eyes peer into mine with suspicion. I keep surprising him and he doesn’t like it.

Anyhow, his inscrutability does not help him this time. I see his bluff and raise.

“Please stop boring me with your decisions, decisions, decisions. When you want me dead, at this point _if_ you _ever_ want me dead, don’t waste your breath in telling me and give the order to a guard to slit my throat in my sleep. If instead you decide to let me go... well, I suppose I’ll know.”

His silence is eloquent. I guess from his cold glare that he would like to put me back in my place, but then he would give me too much importance, and that would make no sense to him.

“I know the way.” I walk towards the narrow carved staircase that turns on itself in midair like a spiral, forming a sort of suspended bridge-corridor; the Kingdom of the Elves is an elegant combination of wood, flowers and stone.

On the path, a little further on, I find the guard who walked me down here. As soon as I approach him, he takes a very short smooth step and escorts me back. I don’t make a fuss and follow him silently.

I don’t look at anyone, least of all the half troll bellowing like a madman against the bars. I keep my gaze fixed on the tips of my rumpled boots. As soon as I pass in front of its cell it growls out a roar of bestial ferocity and floods me with a spurt of saliva and a cloud of fetid, rancid breath.

The guard opens my cell and steps aside to let me pass.

My courage has a price, and that price is tears. I immediately let myself slide to the ground, pressing my shoulders and back against the wall, and I run my hands through my hair. I pull three strands with a heavy sob.

It doesn’t matter how long it will take for the rebels to reach Woodland Realm - if they ever manage to find it; perhaps with the help of the dwarves, they will - nor if I will still be alive the day they draw swords against the elven people.

I can’t do anything about this. I’m powerless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to stay as much true to the original characters as possible, especially in Thranduil’s case: in the books he’s depicted as a benign man, whose primarily concern is for his realm; he lives in atunement with nature, wearing a crown of flowers according to the season; he’s described as distrustful of strangers; he’s also mostly unconcerned with affairs of the world beyond Mirkwood unless a common enemy is shared. And, of course, he has a particular fondness for white gems: “if the elf-king had a weakness it was for treasure, especially for silver and white gems; and though his hoard was rich, was eager for more, since he had not yet as great a treasure as other elf-lords of old.”
> 
> Personally, I imagine the Elvenking as a serious, intelligent and fascinating creature, with great knowledge and power, strong and proud. Stubborn, too, but wise. It makes sense that the King of the Elves would be an intriguing character, especially considering that not much is known about him or his past. Misterious characters are so interesting to slowly unreveal, because usually they’re layered and so much more complex than you can possibly imagine.  
> I hope whoever is reading the story is enjoying this version of Thranduil Oropherion. 
> 
> P. S. I must say that the interactions between Relle and Thranduil are very intense to write: the Elvenking has seen and known so much while she’s barely starting to open her eyes to the reality of her world.
> 
> P. P. S. You may have noticed that the titles of the story are different: the reason for that is simple: English titles are often translated differently in Italian. The title in English would be approximately translated as: The Enchantment of the Seven White Sisters. 
> 
> Are you liking the story so far, readers?


	9. Exodus

Three more days pass.  
My imprisonment seems to revolve all around the weeks that turn into months, with the autumn that is getting closer and closer to giving way to winter. At a certain point I stop keeping track of the monotonous and repetitive succession of days. Time marks the seconds even without me obsessively enumerating them.  
I no longer have food or water. Despite rationing them, I ran out of all the provisions.  
I feel weak, hungry, thirsty, worn out in both mind and body. I even suffer from hallucinations. For the past few days, I’ve done nothing but sleep, throw up and sweat. I think I might have a little fever. I’ve tried to hold liquids in my stomach, but it’s totally useless. My body, already thin and tried, rebels against hunger in the only possible way.  
Some time after the last audience - my mouth as dry as the fields hit by drought and my stomach exhausted and numb -, I receive an unexpected gift.  
Apparently the king was persuaded to keep me alive for a little while longer. I don’t know the reason, nor do I care to know. I merely want to survive. They give me fresh water in a pitcher and a bowl of fresh fruit and vegetables.  
Perhaps my ability to surprise him has an effective utility, after all: the utility of reminding him of my presence in his immense realm.  
I do not physically have the strength to oppose my desire to satiate and quench my thirst, therefore, as soon as the guard puts the pitcher on the ground, I jump on it and swallow the water all in one breath. Shortly after I need to empty my stomach in a corner of the cell. What a waste.  
I reach for the bowl of fruit and vegetables. Maybe it’s because I haven’t eaten for days, but their flavor tastes exquisite, the richest and most satisfying I’ve ever tasted in my whole life. This time I resist the urge to throw back up those delights and go to sleep with a blissful smile on my lips.  
Apparently the King of the Elves considers a pitcher of water more than enough for just one day. I have to wait until tomorrow to get another one. That’s fine, now I know I can hold out longer than I ever thought possible.  
Obviously, the kind concession of Thranduil the Elvenking wasn’t all that kind. From a comment made by the unarmored guard who had brought me food, I learn that the king ordered that I’ve been given water and food just to check that I was still alive. Otherwise they had a cell to clean up and keep ready for the next captive. The two guards had spoken in my language to make me understand the clear, implied warning: “You’re no different from the others. You’re just a docile guest to be treated with some extra consideration, that’s all.”  
Two days later I’m fasting again. Water helps keep me lucid and relatively strong, but unfortunately it’s not enough.  
In spite of everything, luck is on my side, at least for now.  
Dawn has just broken and for me it’s as if it were still late at night. With my eyes closed I try to ignore my aching guts and pasty mouth. The water fills my empty stomach, but hunger has practically reduced me skin and bones. Which is really saying something, considering I’ve always been skinny as a rail.  
I’m lying on the ground, listless. Immobility is all I need at the moment.  
Or maybe not.  
The absolute silence is interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice calling my name. It takes me several minutes to realize that actually I know that voice, after which the relief invests me with an invigorating rush.  
I blink and straighten my back.  
The first words are confused, pronounced in Sindarin. Then, the friendly voice clears, acquiring the typical squared and flowing traits of the Language of Men.  
“I’m here to deliver food to the prisoner on the orders of Prince Legolas.”  
“Tauriel?” I mumble with my back still to the cell.  
I almost expect the guard to argue with Tauriel by accusing her of lying in favor of a prisoner, but, even before hearing his silent assent, I know he won’t do it. Elves are not like Men, they never act on their own, they never contest orders.  
Tauriel enters with a swift and silent step. She’s holding a tray full of food: honey, bread, wine, fresh fruit and a green salad that smells of woods. My mouth waters right away.  
“I brought your breakfast,” she murmurs in a gentle voice. She crouches near my head. “I’m sorry. It took longer than expected.”  
I purse my lips. “If you have returned, it means the other had it worse.”  
I sense her confusion, then she smiles a slow smile. “Oh yes. Much worse.”  
I blink sluggishly.  
Her beauty is blinding. Her long brown hair, the color of autumn leaves, is smooth and clean, soaked in shiness. Her face is as fair and gorgeous as ever. Her green eyes sparkle with pride, fierceness and understanding. She has spent weeks in the forest battling who knows what hideous creatures, yet she’s perfectly in order. The thumb-shaped patch of earth on her cheekbone does not scratch her perfection even a little.  
For a foolish moment I find myself envying her. I am a complete wreck, plus I’ve never been what people call a “pretty lady”.  
Instantly I feel like an idiot for thinking such a thing. The whole world is crashing down on me, we’re this close from a war, and I worry about my appearance? How stupid.  
I sit up and a grunt escapes me. Tauriel grabs me by the shoulders so that I don’t bounce backwards on the hard floor. She doesn’t know how to touch me, I can see it from her delicate and insecure gestures; she too considers me a fragile creature. At the moment, I just can’t present the best side of the human race and prove her otherwise.  
But asking her to feed me would still be too pathetic. So I force myself and grab a red apple, round and inviting. I dip it into the chalice filled with golden honey and then I bring it to my lips. The first bite is very sweet, so cloying as to be revolting. My stomach twists sending sharp bursts of pain up my throat. I frown and swallow another piece. On the third bite my stomach begins to relax, on the fifth it accepts food with joy.  
Hunger grows suddenly. With my fingers I scoop up the rest of the honey in the glass and suck it off my fingertips with a moan of pure ecstasy. I snatch five salad leaves at once and chug everything down with some more honey and a bit of water; the stock in the corner is still clean. Tauriel passes me the wine. I drink and swallow everything like a ruminant.  
The energies will take some time to return. I lean my head against the wall and sigh heavily with my eyes closed.  
“Thanks,” I murmur.  
“They starved you,” says Tauriel mortified. “I didn’t know… I had no idea you were starving. I’m so sorry, Rellél.”  
“Do not call me that,” I say, slowly opening my eyes. “Mud that suffoucates flowers… Apparently it’s an insult and a very bad omen, in your language. You could have told me. Your king had no qualms revealing it to me.”  
Tauriel shows off an apologetic smile. “It’s not very polite to tell someone that his name in your language announces the harbinger of darkness and disease.”  
“No, I suppose not,” I concede. “Why would my parents have given me such a name? An elven name? Did they choose it randomly? Nothing makes sense anymore.”  
“I’m sorry,” she reiterates, evidently with no words for that. “This treatment is unfair and...”  
“Inhuman?” My scornful laugh takes both of us by surprise. I try to pull myself together. “I’m sorry. I’m not very lucid. But I feel better, thanks to you.” I stare at her and she returns my gaze. “Why are you being so kind to me?”  
His lips curl into a smile. She lowers her eyes. “Because I know what it means to fight for something and find yourself with the whole world against it, with no one to help you.”  
I see that she has not finished speaking, so I keep silent and wait.  
“After my parents died at the hands of the orcs… the King took me under his wing,” she says.  
I try to keep my face expressionless, even if it feels somewhat difficult. I was taught not to divulge and share my painful experiences with anyone, because according to my mother they were a form of self-indulgence, of self-pity that could not find room in our family. We had to suffer in silence and avoid unnecessary whining and complaining. So it had been when my beloved horse Tàlagor died, so it had been when Fergus’s best friend died of malarial fever. We hadn’t cried. We had mourn in our beds, muffling our screams in the pillows.  
I realize straightaway that her face is sad and nostalgic, but also proud and determined. She isn’t haunted by the memories of her past. Because they made her who she is now.  
“Before becoming a soldier, I was a humble, virtuous Silvan Elf with ambitions and skills in battle that I didn’t know how to exploit to ensure that what had happened to my parents would never happen again. But I had no idea how to prove my worth. It was...”  
“Frustrating?”  
She nods. “Yes. I had good intentions, but my impulsiveness and recklessness did more harm than good. Every time I saved a brother, a comrade, someone else died. Every time I fought a war and won it in the name of the King and my people, another one was born elsewhere, even more violent and destructive than the previous one.” She smiles a flat, empty smile. “It was the King who taught me to think before I act. It took a long time to hone my skills and develop the discipline to resist the urge to disobey... but I succeeded. I am still what you would call a “hothead”, the difference is that now I know my place in the world and above all I know my duties.” She looks up. “Do you understand what I mean?”  
I glance away. “Yes, I understand.”  
I made mistakes in good faith and I’m paying the consequences; I must learn to think before act; I must be intrepid without becoming dense.  
“Grant me that at least. Whenever I get escorted before the Elvenking… for some reason, I immediately lose my temper and feel like hitting him! No one has ever caused me such an indomitable desire for violence before!”  
She smiles broadly. It sounds a bit like a laugh.  
“Why does he always have to be so cold, pedantic and suspicious? I’ve always thought of elves as wise creatures who love to eat, sing and dance, as well as joke blithely. The King of the Silvan Elves was to prove to be the exception to the rule, unbelievable!”  
Her wide, amused smile turns into a low crystalline laugh. “I see you feel better. The color on your cheeks is back.”  
I nod vigorously. “A bit. Thanks again, Tauriel.”  
She nods too, in a tacit token of friendship.  
“I’ll bring you something else to eat later.” She gets up. A step away from the bars, she turns and gives me a look I can’t read, her thin eyebrows arched. “You could have told me you didn’t commit the theft. I could have spoken on your behalf with the King.”  
I respond looking her straight in the eye, so that she understands. “No, I couldn’t.”  
She senses something, I can see it from the look in her eyes that slowly ignites with interest. Still, she doesn’t delve into the topic. She withdraws, calling a guard in their harmonious and incomprehensible language, and leaves.  
I lie down with a loud huff, pressing my back against the rough stone floor. I know that a long afternoon of tiring physical recovery is ahead, so instead of closing my eyes and sleeping, with a huge effort I sit back upright, cross-legged, and finish the last remnants of the salad. I’ll probably throw back up the whole lunch in the corner of the cell later, but I don’t care. I’m hungry and I want to eat.  
I decide that I can postpone all worries to another moment, with a full stomach and no hallucinations - in my case, tiny luminous creatures that flutter lightly in the air. I know (or at least I hope) that the war will not break out while I’m busy finishing my portion of green herbs and roots.

***

After having emptied my stomach twice and diligently swallowed some water to cool my throat, I enjoy an hour of proper sleep in the soft, dim light that embraces the prisons.  
Once again, I dream of the snowy mountain with the seven elf-women gathered around the black and empty altar.  
This time, however, I can’t hear even a word of their conversation. I’m too far away and too exhausted. The dream loses shape and color almost right away, and I savour the last half hour of rest entirely, cradled in the silent darkness of the oblivion.  
When I open my eyes again there are still a couple of hours to go until sunset. The light is less intense, close to being replaced by the warm, faint glow of the torches. The signal of upcoming darkness.  
I have nothing to do - no books to read, no distractions to exploit to kill the tedium of those endless hours of waiting - so I pay attention to the chaotic conversations of the other prisoners. It is immediately clear that none of them speak my tongue. So I surrender to boredom and go back to staring at the ceiling.  
Whenever I’m alone with myself, now without stomach ache and hallucinations to distract me, I think of my family, Galen and Azure, Quentin, and I can’t help but feel an overwhelming sadness that punctually leads to tears. I’m so tired of crying.  
I need to focus on real facts, on the present, on what I can or cannot do to undo the damage I have caused... because as long as the threat of a war hangs in the air, I cannot afford to justify my guilt with some good word or forced conviction. I have to fight to prove that I can make things right.  
The real point is: how?

***

Shortly after midnight, I realize that I haven’t moved an inch: I’m still sitting in the same position, elbows on my knees, back against the wall, head sunk between my shoulders, racking my brains with some solution that at the moment seems completely non-existent.  
I feel as stiff as a board and I have cramps all over. I lean my head against the wall, snapping my neck joints. I suppress a groan and slightly shift the weight from one leg to the other.  
How can I persuade Thranduil to grant me the opening to stop the ongoing war, if the only condition I can propose is my - momentary or definitive - freedom? What can I offer him, or offer his people, to gain this privilege?  
A breakout is out of the question. The kingdom of the elves is too vast. The guards would catch me back without batting an eye. And most likely, thanks to yet another rash action, I would be forced to serve a much worse punishment, and this time eternal.  
I sigh heavily.  
The arrival of the night did not appease the screams of the prisoners. Their voices rise in a deafening and continuous echo, almost brutal to my ears. I don’t understand a word of what they scream, but more or less the meaning is obviously transparent: “Get me out of here or revenge will be ours!”, with hints of blood and violence here and there.  
I press my back against the wall, feeling drained.  
Where is Tauriel?  
At the same instant I ask the question in my mind, I hear a melodious voice, totally different from the raucous voices of the prisoners, giving an order in what I now know to be Sindarin, one of the dialects of the elves.  
However, the voice is clearly male. It’s not Tauriel.  
I stare at the entrance anxiously, zero saliva and a lump of tension in the pit of my stomach.  
A shadowy figure slowly approaches as the guard opens the cell.  
Nothing can surprise me more than to see Legolas, son of Thranduil, slip inside my jail with a tray full of food in hand. His annoyed expression tells me he’d rather be anywhere else, grappling with a herd of raging orcs, than here.  
Tauriel must have persuaded him by exploiting the influence she has over him. An effective trick, even if, I must admit, a little petty.  
Legolas’ frown is almost comical: stiff jaw, lips pursed in a thin line. His long pale hair falls down the broad shoulders, the strands at the temples are skillfully braided behind the nape. He wears a tight-fitting, parl gray uniform like a second skin. On his back he carries the bow and quiver. Evidently, he never separates from it.  
“Here,” he says roughly, handing me the tray with the cereal soup and fruit.  
I grab it with firm fingers, placing it on my knees. “Thank you. Where is Tauriel?”  
“My father assigned her a guard duty at the border.”  
I look up, vacantly scanning his pearly face. “He’s worried. Something is wrong.” Intuition overwhelms me with a wave of bile. “There are movements on Rhovanion borders?”  
He averts his eyes. “We are perfectly capable of handling a rebellion. Your kin are predictable. We can easily contain the explosion of violence, should this ever occur.”  
“We’re not weak just because we have rudimentary weapons and have not been trained to fight since we were infants!”  
He raises an eyebrow.  
“By the by, thanks for dinner. I know you did it because Tauriel asked you to,” I mutter.  
He seems slightly taken aback by my gratitude. And clearly irked by my observation.  
“You better get some rest. I’m afraid your part in this story hasn’t concluded yet,” he says, heading for the door.  
“I guess not,” I whisper in a faint voice.  
Legolas doesn’t add anything else and leaves.  
I dine, laboriously savoring every single bite. The soup is lukewarm and the fruit is sweet. My stomach is closed, but I know I can’t afford to skip another meal; I’ve already skipped too many. I finish eating, then I leave the tray near the entrance and go back to sit down.  
If Thranduil felt compelled to set up watches at Rhovanion borders, his distress must be more serious than I thought. My people are moving.  
I curl up and close my eyes. For now I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about anything.

***

A sonorous thunderclap roars throughout.  
I wake up with a start, opening my eyes wide in the total darkness of the cell. The only source of light comes from the sporadic torches hanging outside. I feel my heart press against my ribcage, my irregular breathing freezing my lips. Everything else, every inch of my skin, is boiling. My blood is drumming in my veins.  
Before I can calm myself down and go back to sleep, the thunder strikes again, this time followed by the sound of breaking rocks. As if a landslide were about to crash on us.  
I wince and immediately jump to my feet. It’s not a storm nor the breaking of some cave. It comes from too close and is on the same level. It’s something else, something darker.  
I lean against the bars, squeezing them tightly in my sweaty palms. I’m not the only one to have been disturbed by the noise. The other prisoners are just as vigilant as I am. They lean out of their cells as well - the salamander lights up its blazing eyes and sticks out its purple, forked tongue - to see what’s going on.  
The thunder strikes again, again and again. It’s like someone is trying to get in… or get out.  
I don’t grasp the difference immediately, it takes me a while to realize what feels wrong. The weird particular I gradually got used to, and which now seems totally out of place.  
The guards are not here.  
I look for them, pressing my face against the bars. The corridors are deserted, unsupervised.  
How is it possible? Where on earth did they go?  
A horrible thought takes shape in my mind. What if the war had already started? What if the guards had been called back by Thranduil to protect the reign against a horde of armed men?  
I inhale deeply to calm myself down.  
It’s not possible that the battle is on, I would have heard the screams long before the thunder. The confusion would be external and resounding, not internal and punctuated by distinct and spaced blows. This is a roar coming from inside the caves. It’s not an invasion.  
I glance around, looking for a possibly less catastrophic explanation to that banging noise. Breathing in and out, I suddenly catch something, an essential detail that I had previously missed because I was in a panic.  
The other prisoners do not seem at all concerned by the ‘thing’ that is knocking at our doors. While I can’t understand their boisterous howls, I recognize the common glow of joy and excitment that burns on their faces, their snouts and their muzzles. A dangerous glow.  
The blow repeats, and this time it’s even closer.  
In order not to lose my balance, I cling to the bars and prop my feet on the ground. Luckily I ate, otherwise I wouldn’t have the strength to stand on my legs right now.  
Another powerful blow.  
And then, I hear a groan, the angry roar of an animal trying to break the bars of its cage.  
Startled, I look to my right. The blow strikes again and this time I see the wall vibrate. I swallow.  
With a trembling step I reach the wall. I place a hand on the rough cold stone just as another punch is struck. The intense vibration sends a twinge up my wrist. I snap my hand back and cast an alarmed glance beyond the bars.  
In the cell next to mine there is no prisoner. But two cells away there’s the half-troll. The same half-troll who had promised to feast on my bones.  
It can’t break out of these jails… it’s not strong enough. But if it was, why didn’t it try to escape earlier? Was it waiting for the right moment? A distraction for the guards? Did it have accomplices? Was the planned invasion perhaps not by my people, but by its?  
Too many thoughts, too much confusion. I don’t have to think, I have to act.  
The blows keep raging at a very short distance from each other.  
I realize too late the effect they are having on my cell. The ceiling is already filled with thin cracks, which gradually become thicker and more branched. The first rocks fall and I jump across the room to dodge them.  
Totally useless. It’s a cave-in.  
If the hitting and smashing don’t stop immediately, I’ll end up buried alive.  
I curl up in a corner, taking up as little space as possible. I shut my eyes.  
It’s quiet all of the sudden, and after so much noise, the silence is almost deafening.  
I wait another couple of seconds before slowly opening my eyes and taking a look around.  
I’m surrounded by debris and huge boulders that have fallen from above, now reduced to a bunch of rocks piled on top of each other. I breathe in a mouthful of grainy powder and cough right away to clear my lungs. I feel a wound in my temple, a sharp pain that pulsates to the rhythm of my beating heart. With my fingers I collect a tear of blood that is slowly dripping down my temple. I’m injured, although, fortunately, not seriously.  
I press myself a little more against the bars, and that’s when I notice the discrepancy that had escaped me before. The bars do not resist my weight. They’re anchored to the floor for now, but if I push a little with my legs and shoulders, I feel them swing. The blows ripped them off the upper hinges.  
The only way I have to free myself - after all this is the only chance I’ll have to escape - is to force the lower hinges and push as hard as I can.  
The howls and cries start to rise again eventually. This is my signal.  
At the exact moment when the final blow is struck, I place my legs against a particularly large boulder, sure that it won’t move an inch, I press my shoulders against the bars until my spine hurts, then I push. The grunts I cough between my teeth mingle amid the general screams.  
With the latest explosion of stones and rocks, the half-troll escapes from its cell and I from mine.  
I roll on the edge of the narrow corridor that runs through the prisons like a twisted branch, and only by the skin of my teeth I don’t fall down, over the edge, into the chasm below. I crawl backwards and new wounds open up on my palms and knees.  
I jump up quickly and immediately turn in the direction of the half-troll, looking for a sharp stone that I can use to protect myself. The profile of its massive, deformed body, a few feet shorter than traditional trolls, no longer terrifies me more than the fact that its black, pupilless eyes are fixed on me. It retracts its nonexistent lips over its yellowish fangs, in a kind of grotesque grin.  
And, suddenly, I cringe. Does it want to take advantage of this breakout to kill me?  
No, it can’t be. Of course I’m an easy prey at hand... but why bother killing me when it might just run away?  
I observe the way it looks at me, almost rejoicing at the idea of taking me down... For some reason, it prefers to fill its stomach rather than escape the prisons of the elves.  
A shiver runs down my spine as I take an instinctive step back.  
It’s much taller than me, huge and terrifying; its crudely human features are distorted into a ferocious, bloodthirsty scowl; its fangs protrude from its thin lips, glistening as black as its eyes like the bottom of an abyss.  
I have no chance against it. I’m small and agile, I can run fast, but this won’t be enough to stop that beast.  
The half-troll moves to reach me. It gather strength and energy with every step, revealing its grayish gums. It leaps down the hall and swoops half a meter away.  
I don’t have time to think. I throw the big stone I picked up from the ground in its direction and immediately run away. I have the vague sight of the sharp pebble bouncing off its skull, leaving it dazed for a few seconds. It slows down and shakes its cracked head. Then it points its slimy eyes at me, bursts into an animal roar and rushes after me.  
The other prisoners bark and howl from their cells. I don’t understand if they are inciting the troll to skin me alive, if they are urging me to flee in a rush of impossible empathy, or if they just want to be set free and join the hunt.  
Then, the umpteenth alarming sound expands in the air. The sound of a horn, or a shell.  
The screams subside.  
A moment later a group of armored guards storms in, bows and swords and spears in hand, and swiftly surround the half-troll. They are as quick as ever, graceful but deadly.  
The half-troll, on the other hand, doesn’t seem particularly troubled. It’s not scared, just... irritated. It snorts from its wide nostrils, clenching its fists and snapping its blackish knuckles. I guess from the angry look it throws at the elves that it has no intention of giving up. Although it isn’t a highly intelligent creature, it seems to calculate their positions and plan what to do.  
My momentary relief vanishes into thin air as soon as the troll, with a sudden and lightning-fast movement, grabs the uprooted bars of my cell and, flexing its big lumpy arms, throws them against another. The salamander gets released from its cage and mounts on the flat back of its long tail, rising to all its thirty feet of height, throwing flames and spitting inky black poison on the guards.  
The half-troll takes advantage of the confusion to hurl another large rock at another prison, this time releasing a shapeshifter.  
An arrow sticks into its back, but it doesn’t even notice. It grabs more rocks and throws them at other cells, freeing the rest of the remaining prisoners.  
What was supposed to be a single evasion all of the sudden turns into a mass breakout. I can’t help but feel anxious for the elves, even though I’m quite certain they’ll be able to prevail over the prisoners; a thirst for blood and revenge cannot compete with the coldness of a disciplined mind. They would die only to have the satisfaction of taking revenge on the king’s guards who imprisoned them there.  
But I don’t want to get caught in the middle.  
I back away slowly, as quiet as I can.  
The guards no longer pay attention to us and jump on the other fugitives. Eliminating or capturing them alive no longer matters.  
The ongoing battle, however uneven, is not devoid of deaths and injuries in the elven guard corps. The salamander takes out two custodians using fire. A hairy and particularly infuriated dwarf disarms a guard and hits her with a powerful headbutt that knocks her unconscious. The shapeshifter transforms into a gigantic bear and with astonishing speed sinks its sharp claws into the armor of another elf, who ends up crushed by its weight as the bear whizzes away... and races straight towards me.  
It takes me exactly half a minute to realize that this is not a mirage or a bad joke concocted by my terrified brain: the bear is actually running in my direction.  
I don’t know what to do, it’s an animal and consequently it’s much faster than me, I can’t escape. It swells its huge muscles and lunges at me. I scream and raise my arms to protect myself from the impact. A powerful puff of wind makes me lose my balance. I fall backwards violently hitting my back on the ground. I slowly open my eyes with my ears ringing.  
The bear landed on a hideous creature that apparently was hiding behind me. Slimy and full of hairy paws, it struggles furiously under the bear’s weight. The shapeshifter roars and bites it in the leathery throat, ending its angry screeches.  
Its brown and expressive eyes find me at a very short distance, lying on my side, terrified and weakened by pain. I guess I’m next.  
Instead it stands still, its muzzle smeared with black blood, and then whizzes off, making its way up the slim flight of stairs, throwing away anyone who stands in its way.  
I can’t believe it. That shapeshifter just saved my life!  
Unfortunately I don’t have time to rejoice.  
The half-troll is charging back. Now that it’s managed to distract them, it can take care of me at its leisure.  
I have no room to move. I could turn my back on it and run, but I’m almost out of strength. I don’t know how much energy I have left for another clumsy escape attempt. It may be big, but it’s also fast. Its legs are longer than mine, it can reach me at any time. The only possibility I have left is to trip it and hope that it will lose its balance and fall into the precipice.  
As it steps forward unhurriedly, conscious of the fact that I can’t go anywhere, a bright white dot appears at the edge of my field of vision, as fast as an insect. I get distracted for a very brief moment.  
It’s bright, a firefly that emits an almost musical crystalline tinkle with every beat of its invisible wings.  
Oh no. Those stupid hallucinations again.  
Another one appears, then another one. They come out of nowhere like midges.  
I raise a hand to chase them away, to no avail because they are not real. This is not the time to indulge in madness! Not now, not now, I keep repeating to myself.  
However, they don’t seem to disappear. Indeed, they grow in number. They are so sparkling that it hurts my eyes. I press my eyelids shut.  
The half-troll crashes halfway. It tilts its big crooked head, staring at me curiously. I must appear ridiculous right now, if not a comical prey, as I wave my hands in the air chasing away a flock of invisible fireflies. I’m making it too easy for it to kill me.  
But then, looking at it more closely between the lights that pulsate around my head, I realize that it’s not staring at me, but at the air surrounding my body. It’s hesitant, and more importantly, it’s not attacking me.  
I cease any further attempt to fight the hallucinations. It moves its small black eyeballs following the lightning-like movements of the fireflies buzzing around my face.  
Unbelievable. Does it see them too?  
The fireflies that have kept me company for almost a month - certainly a symptom of my poor physical condition - rotate on themselves and aim at the half-troll in unison. They are many, at least a hundred. No one else is paying attention to us, so no one else can see them. A stormy blizzard surrounds the half-troll, stinging it and burning its skin with their flaming limbs. It must not be pleasant to feel them upon you.  
This is my last chance. While the fireflies - apparently real - storm the half-troll, gaining time in my place, I climb over the boulders rolled from the ceiling and dart away. Escaping isn’t so easy when you have to dodge flying fireballs, heavily armed guards, and bloodthirsty prisoners - most likely thirsty for your blood. More than once, I risk falling victim to some tripping and a few flying punches. The guards pay no attention to me: I’m so small and harmless that they don’t even notice me. All to my benefit.  
I don’t know where I’m going nor do I care. Any place is better than this one.  
A growl behind me drowns all my hopes. I recognize that chilling sound: not long ago it had promised to feast on my bones.  
I take a careful look over my shoulder. Apparently the troll managed to free itself from the fireflies.  
I keep running, but I can hear it gaining more and more ground. My muscles burn, my lungs beg for air. I can’t stop now.  
Its hoarse, stinking breath wets the back of my neck, then its giant hand grabs me by the ankle. I let out a strangled yell and fall to the ground. I crawl backwards, peeling the palms of my hands. Totally useless.  
The troll is looming over me. Its clenched fists and crooked fangs exposed, eyes sparkling with satisfaction.  
“You’ll burn,” it barks as it raises its arm to take me down.  
Once again, I can’t help but feel impressed by its knowledge of the Language of Men. Trolls were hardly known for civilly communicating with other peoples of Middle Earth. Except those who hid in the forests teeming with life and feeding on unwary wanderers.  
“What does that mean?” I stutter, horror swelling my throat.  
“He promised I can feast on your bones. I’m famished.”  
“Who?”  
It grins. “Lizard.”  
Its huge fist lingers upon me. Its shadow envelops me.  
I shut my eyes.  
I hear a whistle whipping the air, then a shriek. Not mine.  
I slowly open my eyes.  
The head of an arrow pokes out of the troll’s gray chest. It lowers its gaze and puts its hands around the gold spire. Incredulous, it stares at the thin shaft throbbing at the pace of its own heart, slower and slower.  
Legolas stands majestically on the curve of the endless stairs, the bow still raised.  
The troll looks up at me with foggy eyes. It bares its jagged lips and roars. I withdraw quickly and find that I’ve reached the edge of the precipice. The steps end here. The troll raises its fists, reaching out its dirty fingers towards me. Another arrow sticks into its skull. The shimmering tip pops out right between his eyes.  
With a last lament he falls into the chasm below.  
I take a deep breath while the sounds quiet down all around (or so it seems) and black spots start to dance and float in front of my eyes, erasing and obscuring one by one the scenes of ferocious devastation that is taking place at a short distance.  
My strength fails at once. I let oblivion envelop me, seizing this opportunity to grab the only real escape route within my reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been the most difficult to translate so far. Too many concepts, words, terms, verbs, synonyms... I was so confused! 😂😅 But I finished it anyway, so YAY! 
> 
> Tauriel does not appear in the original books, obviously. She is described as a nonconformist, brash and impulsive, tending to rebel against the established social order of the Elves, mostly because she’s very young. She’s broken ranks and disobeyed authority. Thranduil is fond of Tauriel, and “sees something very special in her”. I think that she fits rather well in the story, and she represents a sort of referential point for Relle. An example to follow.


	10. The secret of the gems 〜 Part I

I regain consciousness bit by bit. I inhale slowly through my nose and slowly exhale through my mouth. Someone dabs my forehead with a cool, wet cloth; it smells of wild flowers and greenery. I breathe in, deeply, savouring the sensation of the fragrant air that swirls down my throat. 

I feel light as a feather. I don’t want to ever have to wake up again. After all, who’s forcing me to return to reality? Why can’t I stay here forever, resting and frozen, protected by unconsciousness?

I’ve experienced too many negative emotions in the last few months. I’m not only tried physically (between fasting and counted meals, the lack of sun and fresh air) but also and above all mentally. I’m sick of being tormented by situations that are patently out of my control. I’m tired of feeling responsible, tired of missing the people I love, tired of worrying about a future that only appears nebulous and dark.

I focus on the numbness of my body. I don’t want to think about anything anymore. I don’t want to feel anything. I enjoy the absence of pain and anguish, smiling on the inside.

Right now I feel nothing but bliss. I could pretend to be asleep forever and spare myself further drama and suffering. If I were smart, I would.

But deep down, I know I can’t, and this irrefutably proves my naivety.

Once again, I prefer to do the right thing. Not for me, no. Too many people are counting on me not losing hope, without even knowing it: my father, my mother, Fergus, Galen, Azure, Quentin, Titus... the people of Mord-Een and Rohandor... not to mention the Elves. I really liked Tauriel, I couldn’t bear the thought of someone hurting her, let alone a member of my people.

Once the matter was resolved, I could go back to prison, I didn’t care. Provided that the guilt that had plagued me from the moment I decided to take responsibility for the theft of the gem was resolved and disappeared.

At a certain point I’m enveloped in a warm, heavy and deep drowsiness. I don’t resist it and let it drag me away.

And so I’m standing once again on the mountain with the black altar and the four white columns inlaid with crystallized winter flowers and lively green leaves. A violent snowstorm surrounds a cocoon of warm air, protected from the stormy weather, on the summit; when the gusts of wind hit it, the invisible barrier breaks, revealing the protective shield.

The elf-women are all gathered in a corner, by one of the white columns. They speak loud and softly, in their mother tongue. They seem worried.

What could have upset this much creatures so imperturbable?

I stop a few yards away from the invisible barrier, right in front of Sister Auress. Her face is the most marked: deep wrinkles frame her high cheekbones, her blue-gray eyes are pensive and sad, her thin lips contracted in a tortured frown, her hair is more silver than blond. A face both ancient and young at the same time.

Sister Himelthel is right behind her, one hand wrapped around a thin dagger with a bone handle tied to the blue belt, the other folded under the chin, her thumb pressed to her full lips. “How is it possible that they found them? They were safe, they were buried.”

“I do not know,” Sister Auress replies sharply. “We knew their security was precarious and, in any case, provisional. They weren’t so relevant as to attract the attention of greedy creatures like dwarves; for them it was not worth stealing a few gems when there are entire mountains full of treasures elsewhere, where the sword is not necessary and the effort lies more in the journey than in the conquest itself. However, there has always been someone interested in owning them. A powerful, eternal man, girded with a crown. Someone who has never understood the true value of this ancient treasure.”

Sister Himelthel narrows her eyes. “Are you referring to Thranduil?”

Sister Auress hesitates. “Men are an ambiguous race, Sister Himelthel. They revealed to the world that they sat on some of Arda’s most desired gems, and they wanted to preserve them to keep their political power intact. They have no idea what disaster their recklessness brought. What evil eyes they drew attention to.”

Sister Hilmelthel shivers. “Centuries have passed, Sister Auress. Mordor is long gone.”

“Mordor is never too far. _The days of Mordor_ are never too far away. What was the point of fighting and buying time if we weren’t able to defend our destiny? What sense did it have to sacrifice so many lives if we cannot regain possession of what is rightfully ours?”

“We can still remedy the mistake we made! We have rested too long on the belief that hiding the gems would stifle their power and conceal our heritage. This will recur in the future if we don’t find a way to preserve our secrets now that we have the chance.”

“There are a few days left until the Winter Equinox,” says Sister Auress, touching the pendant she wears around her neck with her fingers. I hadn’t seen it before, I’d always been too far away to grasp the details of the dream. It is a perfect white gold circle and a letter rotates inside it:

“Time. We need time, “she adds with a restless sigh.

“We’re out of time!” Sister Himelthel replies vehemently. “The time has come to end this, Sister Auress. Once and for all.” She marches away, joining her companions. She stops next to an elf very similar to her, with the same dark hair and the same imperious expression. The only blatant difference is the scar that furrows the face of the other: a wrinkled crescent that takes shape from the right eye, furrows the not perfectly regular nose and sinks into the left corner of the full lips. Her devastated face seems almost divided in half: one side shows sadness and vulnerability, perhaps due to the perpetually curved downward lip, the other pride and tenacity.

Now I understand the presence of winter flowers, surrounded by intertwined ice crystals, wrapped around the sturdy white columns. The Winter Solstice is near... I’d completely forgotten about it. In Rohandor, and more precisely at Thorneye, it meant postponed harvest, hot soup and roasted corn on the cob, spending time together in warm silence around the fireplace, reading and sipping hot drinks.

Almost lost in thought, I whisper to the rushing wind my desire: “I want to go home.”

At the same moment, Sister Auress’s eyes flicker on me.

Shocked, I remain motionless, paralyzed.

“Find the gems,” she says, looking me straight in the eye. “The pixies will guide you. Find the gems and bring them to me.”

The dream slowly folds in on itself. I see the half-troll looming over me, determined to kill me.

I emerge from the nightmare and wake with a start, gasping for air.

***

I wake up in a room lit by the golden-white glow of sunlight. The columns are tall, elegant and form graceful spirals that rise to meet on the dark wooden ceiling. Each column is covered by autumn flowers and emerald green climbing plants. The air is fresh and fragrant.

I’m lying on a soft, foamy, iridescent white bed with a blanket of light lavender tending towards blue. It’s very fluffy, a delicate wave under my body. Even the pillow under my head is soft and delicate as a feather, I can hardly perceive it against my skin.

However, the thing that surprises me most is the light. I missed it so much. My eyes burn and struggle to adjust to it.

“You’re finally awake,” a soft female voice murmurs.

Slowly, I focus on Tauriel’s perfect face. I still see a little blurry, so it takes a few minutes to clear my sight. She is sitting on the edge of the bed, her long autumn hair falling on her high cheekbones and [astonishingly](https://synonyms.reverso.net/sinonimi/en/astonishingly) bright eyes. She has a thoughtful smile painted on her lips.

Suddenly I realize three things: the half-troll is no longer here; Legolas killed it; I’m safe and sound, everything is fine.

“I was worried. You hit your head pretty hard. Our healers took good care of your wounds. You will recover completely, thankfully,” she says.

I touch my forehead where I remembered feeling pain and dripping blood. The skin is soft and clean, smooth, crossed only by a thin line of what to the touch feels like thin stems of leaves, or perhaps silk thread.

There is soreness but the pain is practically gone.

“How long have I slept?” I ask.

“Almost two days.”

“The revolt... has it been quelled?”

She nods. “Only one prisoner managed to escape. All the others have been arranged.”

I can’t hold back my curiosity. “Who?”

Tauriel frowns, as if she found my interest strange. “The shapeshifter.”

I breathe a sigh. Not so bad, at least he had saved my life. As far as I was concerned, if anyone deserved to survive, it was him.

I try to sit up, glad to find that it doesn’t feel too tiring. Just a bit hard on my ribs and legs. I don’t mind it.

“Shouldn’t I be in another cell?” I ask, with a dark humor in my voice.

Tauriel lowers her eyes, dismayed. “Rellél, you are an innocent victim of what happened the other night. Come to think of it, you are an innocent victim of the whole circumstance. You didn’t steal the gem, you didn’t help that half-troll to escape… You’ve always been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“It’s becoming a habit,” I mumble under my breath.

She doesn’t disagree or comment.

“The only thing I can guarantee you is that you will not be put back in prison. I talked to the King.” She flashes a quick, gentle smile, and I raise my eyes, surprised. “Legolas is currently bargaining for your freedom. You can stay here for as long as it takes you to recover. After that you’ll be free to return to Rohandor.”

I should feel overjoyed. I should sing in happiness, or compose a poem as is customary for hobbits. Instead I remain completely motionless, a silent statue with a silly expression on my face. I know I should thank her, but for some reason I can’t find the right words.

Too many emotions, I think. Too many emotions all at once.

“Is this the infirmary?” I ask stupidly instead.

Tauriel smiles, unaware of my considerations. “Sort of, yes.”

It is too beautiful to be an infirmary. To begin with, there is only one bed in the center of the room, the windows are high and bright, and the air smells of flowers and certainly doesn’t stink of blood and medicinal herbs.

I lean back against the head of the bed... velvety snow white fur.

Tauriel murmurs to herself, “We still don’t know how that half-troll menaged to escape. Trolls are strong, but certainly not strong enough to break through bars forged with pure elven silver. Plus, he was weak and undernourished. Something must have triggered him, there is no other explanation. Maybe it was a Tracker hunting…”

I blink. “A tracker?”

She lifts her chin slighlty. “Some trolls, not many - nomadic trolls, mostly - have extraordinarily keen senses. They are supposed to be less evolved than their kin - not that I have ever met an _evolved_ one. Living in complete solitude, in the forests and hunting at night, they do not develop any moderate instincts or ability to interact. They are brutal, savage and violent. While the half-trolls, the result of mixed unions, are the most unbalanced and unpredictable elements of their species. And if they have the nature of a Tracker... they are impossible to reason with.”

“You said he was ‘hunting’. Hunting for what?”

She hesitates. “When Trackers smell the scent of a prey... if they are very hungry... they can hunt that specific prey for weeks on end, and nothing and no one can stand in their way.”

I press one hand against the other, squeezing it, feeling the sweat slowly cover my skin. “When did you catch him?”

“Three moons before you arrived. He had crossed over into our territory. We found him near a river while he was skinning a deer.”

“Because he was already hunting.” The realization doesn’t strike me with particular intensity, because I’d already worked it out for some time. From the moment he’d threatened to kill me, perhaps.

Tauriel stares at me. “What do you mean?”

I’m not sure it’s a good idea to share my suspicions with her, but I can’t keep it to myself anymore. I’ll break out if I don’t share my concerns with someone.

“He wanted to kill me,” I say in one breath. “He told me himself... ‘I’ll feast on your bones’. He was hungry and he probably smelled my scent. It took a while, most likely because he was still full of the deer, before realizing that his prey was close. He simply lost control.”

Her eyes are filled with apprehension and turmoil. “It’s not possible. He must have smelled you here. Trolls live in the woods, they never get close to cities. Even half-trolls need to track down the smell of their prey before they start hunting.”

“He said, ‘He promised me I can feast on your bones’. Someone put him on my trail.”

“Who? Who could possibly want you dead?”

“Beside your king?” The phrase slipped out of my lips as a joke, a mild mockery, but come to think of it, it wasn’t such an illogical theory. Sister Auress had portrayed him as a greedy, back-stabbing man… But why would he have entrusted the task of killing me to a half-troll when I was already at his complete mercy? It didn’t make any sense.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “Everyone has enemies. I suppose I have mine too, hidden in the shadows.” I bite my lower lip.

I wish I could also tell her about the rest: the dream, the peak, the Seven White Sisters... it’s not prudent and I don’t care. The weights slide off your body only if you allow them to, and I absolutely need to get rid of mine.

Just when I am about to tell her everything, an incandescent light, as small as a bee, appears in my field of vision, just above her head. The pixie flies feverishly in the air, spinning and floating threateningly.

A warning?

“Rellél? Are you feeling all right?”

The pixie whizzes near the door and convulsively points at the lock seconds before disappearing through it.

Tauriel turns around to see what caught my attention. The room is empty and safe again.

I blink and try to display a quiet smile. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m just tired.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but nods anyway. “Rests. I’ll be back to see you tonight. We’ll talk then.”

“Thank you. Don’t tell anyone what I told you, please. Agreed?”

She hesitates, then nods again.

I lie down, sinking my head into the pillow.

I would love to sleep just to have another view of the peak and Sister Auress. I need answers, something concrete. I need to know what’s happening to me. Why would anyone want me dead? The white gems of the Elvenking and the popular legend of the Seventh White Star are involved in this story. But how? I needed to verify my theories. By now I’d stopped believing in coincidences.

***

The next day I’m ready for my third - and probably last - audience with the king. I don’t burst with joy at the thought of facing his inquisitive, haughty glare again, but obviously I have no other choice.

From what Tauriel told me last night, when she came to see me to discuss my theory about the attack of the half-troll, Legolas, after arduous negotiations, managed to strike a deal with his father: I’ll be free to return to Rohandor and to stop the upcoming retaliation as soon as the hunt for the shapeshifter is over. Whether the poor fellow manages to cross Rhovanion border and escape or not, it’ll still take a couple of days.

After that, I can finally go home.

In addition to dinner, Tauriel had also brought me a change of clothes: a brown leather bodice, tight pants of a lighter color, dark boots, a thick blue shirt. She had had to help me put on the robes because they were tailor made for the women of her people and I had absolutely no idea how to wear them.

I was allowed to wash myself, so now my clean, perfumed hair is tightened into a neat braid. I feel better, much better, therefore I’m more than ready to face the Elven Ruler head on.

A guard without armor at the entrance to my room (apparently the infirmary is divided into caves as well) takes charge of accompanying me in the throne hall.

As we walk through the usual bridges, the corridors and the usual carved wooden stairs, I look around for the pixies. I expect them to appear any minute to luring me who knows where and for who knows what reason. I can tell that they want me to follow them. I’m curious to know why.

Since I do not see any suspicious light, I focus my attention on the long dark hair of the elf in front of me. The tufts on the sides of his temples are neatly placed behind the pointed ears. The color is similar to that of wood, vibrant and dense.

I immediately recognize the outline of the throne hall, despite the distance.

Thranduil’s sitting on the throne. He wears his usual refined clothes, this time of a blue-silver color crossed by thick luminous embroideries. The crown girded with autumnal red leaves and the elegant rings glowing around his pale, tapered fingers complete the portrait. His bright gaze scrutinizes me the whole time, until I reach the foot of the staircase.

The guard walks away in silence, leaving us alone.

“I wonder,” Thranduil speaks with a petulant and bored tone, “what cunning wordplay you used to gain my son’s trust,” he says, sharp as a sword. “Legolas used wise words like ‘stability’ and ‘debt’ to convince me to consider your freedom. He shouldn’t have bothered that much, considering the fact that he saved your life.”

“I am infinitely grateful to him for this, your majesty.” I have no intention of attracting his dislikes again, if I can avoid it. This time I’ll be calm and reasonable, I will not be ignited by his conceited attitude. “But I think you know perfectly well that I am not the one who owns your son’s trust.”

“No,” he concedes with a dry tone. “It matters little, all things considered. As soon as the hunt for the last captive is over, you will be free to return to your people.”

I bow. “I’ve never asked for anything else. And I promise you that I will stop the revolt. There will be no wars between Rohandor, Mord-Een and Woodland Realm.”

“So be it.”

I hesitate. Has the audiance already concluded? Do I have to go back to my rooms?

Thranduil tilts his face half an inch to the left, scrutinizing me carefully. “You look different.”

I blink. For a moment I think he may be referring to my appearance, and I stupidly blush. As I said before, I’m not used to my femininity being noticed.

“You’re not the same person who was brought here by force… the same person who wished to sacrifice herself to prove her worth to her people. The intentions persist, yet the attitude has changed. I wonder why.”

I recover my dignity, for a moment suffocated by the blush on my cheeks. “I understood a lot of things when I was lying in agony in my cell. I understood that in order to save my people I would not have to sacrifice myself, but _fight_. I understood that there are things far greater than myself, things beyond my comprehension, and I ultimately accepted my small role in this vast world.”

The silence lasts for a while.

“Very well,” he finally murmurs. “Your freedom has been negotiated. The rebellion will soon be won. As long as you stay in my kingdom you will obey my laws and respect the time set for your final release. In the meantime you will be my guest.”

_Why his eyes always seem to judge anyone?_ I wonder as I struggle to stretch a polite smile. “Thank you infinitely, your majesty.” I hope the sarcasm in my voice doesn’t sound too evident.

Now the hearing is officially over. I turn my back on the immense floral throne, looking for the guard who accompanied me there. I jump when I find him right in front of me. How on earth do they manage to move so quietly and so quickly? I never hear them coming, I don’t even hear the sound of their breath!

I sigh an irritated sigh and precede the elf along the flying bridge.

“One more thing,” Thranduil says behind me.

I stop immediately. I turn my head without moving my body, so that only one side of my face is visible to him. I find it so difficult to converse with this man, a self-centered and narcissistic creature. I’ve never tolerated arrogant and opinionated people, even in their most magnificent and elegant form.

I feel his gaze burn my skin. “A bit of advice, if you allow me.”

A scowl escapes me. How could I _not_ allow him anything? It’s a rhetorical statement, of course.

I remind myself of my resolve to remain calm and condescending.

“You have earned your freedom, Rellél daughter of Thorneye. It is not a gift that I make lightly. Lingering in the shadows is dangerous. Don’t make me regret giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

I swallow. My reaction must not be disproportionate to his words. _He knows nothing_ , I repeat to myself several times to soothe my suspicions.

I nod, so that he understands that I get the meaning of his words. The silence I receive in response suggests me that I can proceed.

I get escorted back to my room. Another cage, although undoubtedly more hospitable and gracious. At least now I can see the sun, eat decent meals and have access to clear water to wash myself. If the half-troll hadn’t been sent to kill me, I would have almost been grateful to him for creating this huge mess. Thanks to his attempt to use me as a toothpick, I’ve gained the privilege of a room of my own that reminds me of home, a ruined property in Thorneye, a place where I can feel - at least a little bit - safe.

Although the danger is far from eradicated.

I sit on the edge of the bed, looking up at the ceiling. I’m trying to find a valid explanation for my dreams and the possible reason for that monster’s attack... without much success.

I’ve always been a humble girl, one of those who in a small village like Rohandor tends to blend in with the landscape, or even with the shadows. Aside from my very long black hair and birdlike weak constitution, I’m so anonymous that not even the bellboy who came to deliver milk to Thorneye every morning remembered my name. I’ve always bowed to my parents’ wishes, with a few rare exceptions. I’m nothing special. I’m not speaking out of modesty or because I don’t value myself, but simply because this is the plain truth.

My troubles had started when I’d decided to protect Quentin and take the blame for the theft he’d committed against the elves. Even though I still couldn’t convince myself that he was really responsible for all my problems. I had my fair share too, that’s undeniable... but if it wasn’t him as I was inclined to think, then who had hidden the gem in his jacket? And why? When and how?

And those dreams… they were too real, too vivid and intense, to be simply the fruit of my imagination. My creativity has always been limited to the concreteness of everyday routine. And once again, the core of the whole matter was those damn white gems! Why? What was so special about them? And what did the legend of the Seventh White Star have to do with them?

Too many questions without answers.

Usually, when I didn’t know how to answer a question, I would go to my father’s study and read all the books piled up in his library, looking for the solution. I always found my answers, whether the topic was about mathematics, astronomy or anatomy.

I needed a library. Woodland Realm had to have one, right?

I stand up and walk resolutely towards the door. I flung it open, finding the familiar shining armored guard in the hall. I clench my fists and walk over. His gaze remains fixed and glassy, his face frozen and static like carved stone.

I opt for a direct approach. “May I know where the library is?”

Of course he doesn’t even bother to answer.

I turn the question over, making it a statement. “I am a guest of your king. I need to go to the library.”

Not even a twitch.

I’m about to manipulate the previous sentence again, when the guard moves. At first I think my eyes are playing a trick on me because I’ve never seen a guard respond in any way to my words and requests, before.

He marches off along yet another suspended bridge, crossed by a very long and very narrow staircase of dark wood.

I practically run after him.

From there we take another corridor, then another one. I do not recognize the route, but I have the impression that we’re going up rather than down, which, in memory of the prisons, seems to me an excellent sign anyway.

We keep moving, one flying hall after another. Woodland Realm really looks like the inside of a beehive: full of hollows, bright inside, spacious, larger and more complex than what one can possibly guess at a first glance from the outside. It could also pass for the inside of a tree of gigantic proportions, since there are wood, branches, flowers and foliage practically everywhere.

The kingdom of men, my kingdom, is not as beautiful and majestic.

I dismiss that thought and keep walking. I like walking, I’ve been too lazy in prisons. I feel the muscles swell under my skin and pump fluid energy up my bones.

We cross another suspended bridge. Out of nowhere I see a firefly flying in mid-air, pointing to the opposite side of the cave we’re entering. The pixie stirs excitedly, shooting tiny blue and white flames. I glance at the guard, who seems not to have noticed the intrusion. Now that I know that my hallucinations are real, I feel no anxiety or fear, just curiosity.

Sister Auress called those strange fireflies ‘pixies’. However, I recognize no face in the light, perhaps because it’s too small and too bright for my weak human eyes. At that distance it’s just a moving torch: perfectly circular, glowing inside, sparkling outside.

Once I got to the library I would have to do some research on them as well. Perhaps by consulting a Bestiary?

The pixie keeps swirling frantically over the overhang of golden air, convulsively pointing at something behind its invisible wings.

I don’t have time for this now. I look away and keep my pace.

The guard leads me to a recess in the stone, another cave. He stops a few meters away, in front of a gigantic door richly decorated in gold, surrounded by autumn flowers and small white and purple buds. Side by side with the other guard present, placing himself on the opposite end of the door. I guess it’s the signal that from here I can go alone.

I open the double doors, a little hesitantly.

The library (is it right to call it that?) is not particularly vast. I’m a little disappointed. I was expecting caves upon caves, suspended bridges, and maybe even a few floating shelves hanging from a phantom branch. Instead it’s all so... floreally simple.

I remind myself that I’m not here for a sightseeing tour but to find answers.

Looking around the semicircular room, I notice some details that at first glance had escaped me: each dark wooden shelf is surrounded by lively flowers and splendid green plants; the books are in perfect condition, without an ounce of dust; the arched openings allow natural light, sunlight and moonlight, to illuminate the room just right; a tree is actually present, and it rises like a white arm rolled up on itself from the smooth floor, penetrating the ceiling almost as if to support it. The scent of flowers combined with the aroma of books is simply exquisite.

I don’t speak Sindarin, therefore I’m looking for a book written in Westron. Elves speak many dialects fluently, they must have learned them somehow.

After a couple of minutes of empty search, I find four. A rather generic manual about the race of men, its past and its evolution, plus three manuscripts of a less significant nature, but which may nevertheless prove useful.

I sit down at the only table of the enormous chamber, in dark oak, also dustless, and open the first volume.

Fourteen hundred twenty-six pages later, I still don’t have a single answer. No mention of the gems, no mention of the pixies, no shred of evidence on the existence of the Seven White Sisters.

Titus Beo-Durr had lived with the dwarves and they’d passed on to him the legend of the Seventh White Star. But Quentin’s father also knew it, to the point of recounting it by heart, so how had he learned it?

I sigh, moving on to the next book.

I spend the whole afternoon leafing through about seven thousand pages of history, myths and stories totally useless for my purpose. I feel exhausted, I’ve skipped both lunch and dinner and my eyes feel puffy from too much reading. That said, I’m not ready to give up just yet. I want to get out of here with at least one concrete answer.

Now I’m about to finish reading the fourth tome, entitled _‘The Kingdom of Men: Conquests and Miseries_ ’ and I still have not found anything of interest.

The light fades and the night falls with its black cloak upon the kingdom. I take advantage of the soft moonlight to continue reading. Just a few more pages.

“May I impose upon you for a moment?” A velvety voice asks from the shadow.

I flinch in the chair.

Legolas emerges from the dusky arch around the corner of a shelf. His pale hair and iridescent eyes confirm his actual presence; my eyesight has never been too good in the dark.

“Of course,” I reply. “How did you know where I was?”

“Even if it’s quite hard to believe, my father’s reign is neither labyrinthic nor out of proportion. It wasn’t difficult.”

I nod. “At least I have the opportunity to thank you for saving my life.”

“It was the first prison break attempt in centuries. We did not expect it.”

I don’t know what to say, so I keep silent.

Legolas takes a few steps in my direction. “That half-troll seemed… singularly interested in you.”

I try to remain impassive. I don’t know how good I’m holding up the facade, though.

“Did you know that some trolls are exceptional trackers? Once they have smelled the scent of a specific prey, they don’t abandon the hunt until death.”

Even if I wanted to, I cannot hide my sudden pallor from his sharp eyes. “Yes, Tauriel told me.”

His eyelids narrows at the edges. “You keep getting us in trouble, and I just can’t comprehend how that’s possible for a little mortal like you are. But I warn you: I will not let you endanger me, Tauriel, my father or the kingdom again.”

“Thanks to your intercession, I will leave soon.” The troubles are and will all be mine.

Legolas stays silent for a moment, after which he fluidly walks away and disappears like he’d appeared. I hear only the slight creak of the door.

I’m too tired to keep reading. I close the last book and press my cheek against it. The soft cover, rounded on the edges, forms a perfect cushion. I close my eyes and let myself be sucked into the darkness.

In my dream, I see Sister Auress, her austere and ancient face, looking at me from above.

“Find the gems and bring them to me... Find the gems and bring them to me! _Hurry!_ There’s not much time left!”

The muffled sound of a book being snapped shut makes me jump in my sleep.

My eyes pop wide open as I sit back stiffly in the chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Sister Auress’ daughter’s name, unfortunately I couldn’t upload the proper font here; the letter displayed on Auress’ necklace is L in elvish. You can Google it. ;)


	11. The secret of the gems  〜 Part II

The sun’s rays illuminate the library. I was convinced that I only slept for a couple of minutes, however, apparently hours have passed. Dawn has already risen.

I look around, bewildered, searching for the source of the noise that stole my dream.

I fall speechless as soon as my gaze falls on none other than the Elvenking himself, wrapped in a pearlescent white robe with silver embroideries, who’s watching me contemptuously from across the long table.

“I see you are fully committed to taking advantage of your guest status in my kingdom,” he says in his deep, velvety voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

My heavens, it’s way too early for this. I would at least need to wash my face and have breakfast first, before facing him again.

I straighten up, grimacing at the stabbing pain in my back, seriously regretting having succumbed to fatigue and falling asleep at the table. I force my tired, sleepy expression into a mask of polite disinterest. But my passive neutrality does not deceive him.

“Since I’ll have to stay here for a little while longer, until I am completely recovered and the hunt is over, as you have kindly granted me, I’d like to learn some of your fascinating language,” I lie with what I hope is sufficient ease.

Thranduil closes another book, puts it back in its place and turns to look at me. Evidently, he wears the crown only on the throne, I notice with a hint of wonder.

“Really?” He whispers doubtfully. “Then why did you only leaf through useless history books on your people instead of referring to the Book of the Elvish Speech?”

In response, blood floods my face.

“Drooling on my centuries-old books...” he murmurs, approaching the opposite shelf, “...it’s certainly not _learning_.” He takes three heavy books and places them on the table next to my hand. “These will be more useful, if you really intend to learn some Sindarin.”

I stare at him without batting an eye. I didn’t expect so much… impersonal compliance… towards me. I thought he didn’t want to have anything to do with me. I thought – and I still believe – that he considered me a subspecies of annoying ant that got into his boot. I feel a bit perplexed. Is he bored enough to waste a few minutes with me, or does he know something I don’t know and is determined to investigate?

“Your suspicions are unfounded,” he reads my mind. “Legolas told me he found you here last night. The unexpected interest in my collection of ancient texts, so puzzling and sudden, that led you to spend the whole night in their company seemed rather curious to me.”

I narrow my eyes. “Do you think that because I’m a woman I can’t read?”

“I’ve never mentioned anything of the sort.”

“Then why aren’t you sincere and tell me the real reason you’re here?”

He stiffens. “You’re assuming that I should somehow justify myself with a guest whose fate has been pardoned by my very own hand?”

That’s a fair point. “Of course not...” I mutter, mortified.

He slowly walks towards the door. “Are you going to lock yourself up in here all day?”

“If that’s not a problem, yes. I want to spend my time well.” All the time I have, all I have left, because I finally recognize its value.

He shows no expression, just a polite hint of interest. “I’ll send someone with food, then.”

“That would be awfully nice of you,” I reply with a touch of hostility that I just can’t suppress. His illusory concern hit rock bottom with the jailbreak, resulting in neglect and carelessness.

Thranduil flaunts indifference, but I can see his profile contracting, especially around the browbone and the corner of his stiff mouth.

I don’t know why, I feel a little guilty for pointing out his shortcomings.

Maybe because I’m starting to get used to his indolent and proud temperament, maybe because I recognize in his haughty and detached demeanor the boastful traits of a king, or perhaps because it’s almost physically painful to see that chiseled, sculpted and perfect face obscured by a shadow of bad mood.

I lick my lips, searching for the right words to express my contrition. “I really appreciate what you are doing for me. Leaving me free to go home, to my family... is a noble gesture. I admit I hastened my judgment of you. You’re not totally coldhearted.” I lift my eyes, slighlty taken aback by the warmth flooding my cheeks.

Thranduil returns my gaze with open astonished air. His entranced look, his confusion are my reward.

He responds with the same effort. “As I said, you are a guest here. You will be free to leave Woodland Realm very soon.”

“I hope so.”

He watches me for another long instant. When he leaves the room, the air seeps into my nervous lungs and my heart gradually slows down its dizzying pace. What a strange reaction.

I decide to divert my attention to something more comprehensible and practical. Something to keep my mind busy with.

I open the first book and dive through the pages.

Two hours later I memorized some complicated Sindarin terms, and learned the rules of its bizarre grammar. It is a complex language indeed. The details themselves are easy to grasp, such as the composition of individual words. The accent, on the other hand, confused me a lot.

For breakfast, they bring me the usual exquisite honey in a golden cup along with sweet fresh fruit. I devour everything while keeping the proper distance from the books, very careful not to dirty them, then I resume reading.

As I’m about to finish the twenty-third chapter of the second book, I begin to feel a little tired in my contracted posture. My neck is numb and my shoulders are sore; the braid pricks the nape of my neck, so I unceremoniously tear off the elastic of hard herbs that binds it and shake my long black hair free. My hair rains like a straight, soft waterfall down my back and legs.

As this is the first time I’ve committed myself to learning the basics of another language, I cannot help but feel overwhelmed by the appeal and emotion of it. It’s a seductive, almost magical, slow and challenging journey. Every now and then I take a little break to regain energy and stretch my sore muscles, then, even though my legs are stiff and I need to walk around the library with the book under my nose, I can’t bring myself to stop reading.

I’m starting to understand the first lines. I repeat them out loud and find that my accent isn’t quite as bad as I thought. With a little practice, I’ll learn Sindarin by the end of my stay in the realm, or at most I’ll finish reading the third manuscript by tomorrow morning.

It’s late afternoon when Tauriel comes to visit me. She enters with a firm step, hands on her hips, greating me with a small smile.

“Legolas told me I’d find you here,” she says.

I lift my eyes from the book, almost dazed; I’ve probably read too much since I’m seeing double. I run my fingers over my plump eyelids.

“Is there anyone he hasn’t told yet?”

Her closed-lipped smile widens. “Have you learned anything useful?”

“I’m not sure about that. Maybe just one thing: _Uin edhel!_ ” I’m not an elf!

Her laugh has the sound of a thousand leaves, a thousand crystal bells shaken by the wind. “Well, you’re doing pretty well, as far as I can tell.”

I shrug. “Probably.”

Her luminous gaze moves to my pitch black hair, tangled and dark as night. “You really have beautiful hair.”

I burst into an embarrassed, self-conscious laugh. “Seriously? They’ve been tied up for so long that they feel incredibly heavy to me now! Kinda like a nest of twigs.”

“Why don’t you simply leave them loose?”

I sigh as I put the book down on the dark oak table. “It’s a long story.”

“I have no upcoming commitments,” she says, taking a seat on the opposite side.

My sigh smoothes into a faint smile. “My mother instilled in me the concept of containing my femininity, as for her it is a form of vanity and caprice. My hair is my own little, personal defiant act, and at the same time the most feminine part of myself that I can show to the world. I wasn’t allowed to carry them loosely at home. I had to tie them very tightly at the back of my neck, or wear a cap.

“To be honest, I always thought my mother would have preferred another son to a daughter. She certainly never did anything to hide her resentment for this injustice. In part I understand the reasons behind her stubborn beliefs: in our era women grow up to become wives and mothers, they must always look after their appearance and take care of the house and family, as the main support. These are undoubtedly roles and qualities to be admired.

“Once, when I was on the verge of adulthood, I asked her why she’d wanted me if she couldn’t even consider me a woman equal of her, always too imperfect. She replied, “It was not my choice”.” My smile fades, flattening into a scowl filled with sadness and bitter resentment. “At least she didn’t lie.”

“I’m sorry,” Tauriel whispers sadly.

I nod, blinking away the tears. “Isn’t it absurd that I miss her this much, in spite of everything?”

“She’s still your mother.”

I nod again. “I would love to put things right between us once I get back home. But I don’t think anything will change in the end.”

A long minute of silence passes.

Tauriel stoods up with a quick and silent movement, walking around the table. She points at my hair. “May I?” She asks.

I nod, surprised.

Her strong and thin fingers, delicate as leaves, slip into my tangled hair and begin to skillfully weave the locks.

“Thranduil is taking action, severe security measures. He’s convinced that someone wants to steal the white gems.”

I remain as still as possible. “Why would he believe that?”

“Voices, murmurs whispered in the shadows. He’s not sure.”

“But he has strong suspicions.” A chill runs up my spine.

She nods once.

“You didn’t tell him anything, did you? About my theories and the half-troll’s intentions?”

She waits a moment before replying, “No, but I should.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “I shouldn’t have put you in the position of having to lie to your king.”

“You didn’t, it was my choice. I promised to keep your secret and I will keep my promise. As long as your secret does not endanger neither you nor my people.” Her smooth hands leave my hair. “How do they look?” She takes the silver goblet – shiny like a mirror – from the tray and brings it to my face.

My reflection’s distorted, but I can still distinguish the contours of my pale face, the dark shadows around the eyes and the new, well-styled shape of the hair. With pointy ears I might even pass for an elf.

“They’re beautiful,” I whisper.

“I know it’s not for me to tell you, but… you shouldn’t hide yourself from the world. You are beautiful as you are. You are beautiful for _who_ you are. Nobody deserves to live in darkness, wearing a mask.”

I am pleasantly struck by her words. I’ve never had a friend before, and although we come from different peoples, we share an affinity, a spirit of solidarity that unites us.

I give her a sincere smile.

She reciprocates, then her face darkens. “I almost forgot. I didn’t come here just to... well, to help you with your hair or to assist you in your lessons.” Her smile fades. “The king asked me to bring you news regarding the hunt for the fugitive.”

A nervous lump tightens my throat. “Well? Did you capture him?”

“The hunt ended today. And no, the shapeshifter managed to cross the borders of the kingdom and escaped our guards.”

I feel somewhat relieved. All things considered I’m glad he made it.

More important, if the hunt is finally over... that means I’m free. I can leave Woodland Realm. It should be good news, indeed, _extraordinarily_ good news... Yet I can’t even feel half the joy I should. I’m just empty and confused, numb as after a dip in icy wintry water. Yes, someone had challenged me to do it once, and I didn’t like that particular memory.

I murmur, “ _Ni ‘lassui_.” Thank you.

She frowns. “You don’t seem very happy about it.”

“I’m just tired,” I lie. “I need sleep.”

She nods, but doesn’t look convinced. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts, then.”

“See you tomorrow,” I say, feeling deep down that it’s true, that I need this confirmation.

I collect the books and prepare to return to my room. I expect to get escorted by one of the guards, but this time it doesn’t happen. I’ve the vague feeling that Tauriel might be behind this, and I smile to myself. Another thing for which I have to be grateful to her.

I haven’t seen a pixie in all day. No strange glow or the familiar crystalline hum that follows them – their wings may be invisible to the human eye, perhaps? I don’t know whether to take it as a good sign, and I don’t intend to worry about it right now. I’m too busy enjoying the freedom that I will savor first thing tomorrow morning, at dawn.

I smile like a fool walking down a long corridor hanged in mid-air. I don’t even feel dizzy anymore!

Actually, I’m torn between a feeling of pure joy and an unpleasant presentiment that doesn’t allow me to fully bask in the happiness of the moment. I don’t feel bliss, but a bitter discomfort, a profound turmoil. I’ve got a hunch it’s not over yet, that going home won’t fix anything. I’ve experienced too many things, too many emotions in the last three and a half months to be able to return to my “normal” life as if nothing had happened. My destiny has changed forever, _I_ have changed forever. I can’t – and I don’t want to – go back.

Above all, although admitting it makes me feel rather awkward, I’ll miss the elves a little. It’s impossible to cross the borders of their kingdom without feeling bewildered and frightened, as in a fairy tale with algid and enchanted contours, and it’s impossible to leave them without feeling bewitched and totally enraptured by them, unhappy at the idea of saying goodbye. A small part of me – however rejected by reason – will always desire to come back, to see that corner of paradise one last time before closing my eyes to the world for good.

However, I was born and raised in the realm of men and that’s where I belong.

Another fact that cannot be overlooked is my connection with the Seven White Sisters.

To tell the truth, I never thought I was special, just different, the way everyone feels. Now I know that my diversity is much more than just physical and temperemental: it’s something ancient, unfamiliar, wondrous and terrifying at the same time. I cannot ignore that there is something extremely obscure in my past, a shadow that has walked in mine all this time, present and yet impossible to perceive and recognize. This changes everything.

I made a lot of mistakes in good faith. I’m not perfect, far from it. I could let go of the innumerable mysteries that haunt me and force myself to return to the plain and safe routine of the old Rellél. On the other hand, who can guarantee that this is not just a silly superstition? A bogus omen generated by the too many emotions experienced? The half-troll could have picked up the trail of my scent anytime, for example while I was going to pick berries in the woods with my mother. But what about the dreams about the White Sisters? Simple fruit of suggestion. Who knows, maybe one of the powers of the pixies was precisely to manipulate people’s minds in their dreams...

_No._ I can’t convince myself of things I don’t believe in even one bit. That would really drive me insane.

At this point, the only thing I can do is put some order in my life and go home.

I would impose a real revolution on my mother: loose hair, clothes to my taste, personal and selfish decisions of any kind. I would hug my father, pull Fergus’s ears as we did as children to playfully tell each other that despite the pranks and the teasing we would always protect each other. I would kiss Galen the surly on the cheeks and hold the strong and fearless Azure in my arms. I was going to study, this time not limiting myself to medicine alone, but also exploring new stimulating horizons, including elven culture. Why not?

Last but not least, I would delve into the nature of my feelings for Quentin.

My fate is back in my hands at last.

I walk into my room and immediately jump on the bed. I sink half an inch into the extraordinarily soft mattress, overwhelmed by the floral scent that I’d recognize everywhere by now, even if I were dead. I take a deep breath and fill my mouth, lungs and belly. _Delicious._

I don’t completely grasp the reason why I feel so much painful nostalgia at the thought of leaving this place… It was certainly not a vacation, but rather a captivity followed by misunderstandings and extremely risky situations. And yet, I know I will miss it. Returning to Rohandor, a smelly, humid and noisy town nestled in the mountains that meet between Rohan and Rhovanion, is almost depressing.

I’ll certainly miss Tauriel. Thinking about it, maybe I’ll miss my discussions with Thranduil a little, too...

I frown and change position. The last person I want to think about right now is the Elvenking, the man who contributed to get me into trouble more than once.

Yet again, I’m not being completely honest with myself. There’s something about him that reminds me of the pain I felt when I lost my beloved horse, only much more intense, baffling. I’ve understood that he has lost his wife – he never mentions her, much less does Legolas – and that kind of loss, especially for an immortal creature, can never possibly be overcome. I feel sorry for him. His sadness stirs my innate compassion. I don’t want to, but it is so. I would like to get angry, even hit him... but I still can’t bring myself to despise him.

I frown and roll on my side.

Finally tomorrow I’ll be reunited with my family, Quentin, my people, and I’ll prevent the war from breaking out. Everything will be fine. Now that the finish line is close it seems an all too simple mission.

I close my eyes and travel back to the ghost mountain, in the freezing winter just around the corner. As soon as I meet the White Sisters, I immediately realize that something’s different.

They’re nervous, displaying a defensive united front, surveilling the margin where the first two white columns join to form a door. They’re all armed with a thin silver dagger with a bone handle. Their tense and listless expressions are not a good sign.

The only unarmed is Sister Auress, who’s holding tightly the pendant she wears in her fist.

“Where is he?” One of them asks, staring impatiently at the empty space between the white columns. “He should be here by now.”

“He’s coming,” Sister Auress says. “I can _feel it_.”

Sister Himelthel tightens her fingers around the dagger, a fierce expression on her face. “What if he doesn’t come? The Winter Solstice will expire at midnight! We cannot wait any longer.”

In absolute silence, Sister Auress’s blue eyes find my face. Her gaze fills my field of vision and she seems desperate, frightened.

“Find the gems and bring them to me. _Or the whole world will fall and you will walk on its ashes!_ ”

The earth cracks under my feet and my breathing quicken. I’m more than terrified because I’m certain, deep in my soul, that she’s telling the truth.

Suddenly, I see fragments of images, as if my dream had suddenly moved hundreds of thousands of kilometers to another place, another land. A dragon destroys an entire village with its unforgivable breath of fire; hundreds of thousands of dead bodies lie at the foot of a mountain from which liquid gold drips like blood; a fiery eye scans the sky waiting for someone or something to arrive; blades against blades, men, dwarves and elves fighting against each other. I see Legolas and Tauriel on horseback together, raging in the storm.

And finally I see Thranduil battling a legion of orcs on the edge of the distant city of Bree. My heart beats furiously as I watch the Elvenking wielding his sword with skill, beheading enemies upon enemies, fighting for his life and his army.

When he’s thrown from his steed, a magnificent white deer, I hear my voice, against all common sense, shouting his name.

I wake up with a start in the darkness of the room. I push my hair away from my neck and pull myself up, holding onto my elbows. I press a hand on my chest, at the level of the heart, feeling it beating fiercely against the skin. I’m breathing hard and my legs are shaking.

What a dream.

And then, with another impossible rush of my heart now resonating in the silent room, I realize an extremely relevant fact: darkness is by no means absolute.

A pixie’s scorching the air with its golden-white glow, spinning lazily on itself, as if it’d been waiting for my awakening for some time. When the twinkle catches my eye, the pixie twirls towards the door, slipping through the keyhole.

I know too well that I can’t just ignore it and go back to sleep. Sister Auress was very clear. Whatever is about to happen will happen tonight, as the Winter Solstice reaches its climax.

I get out of bed measuring my movements. I open the door and peek into the corridor. There are no guards around the infirmary tonight.

I follow the pixie up the flying corridors, down a winding path. We enter increasingly darker and complex areas, where the caves follow one another forming cells upon cells, an intricate organism, just like a beehive. I’ve the distinct impression that we’re going up.

I’m fairly convinced that it doesn’t intend to lead me into a trap – or at least I hope so – so I do not dwell in my steps.

The multiple corridors and endless stairways keep confusing my perception of time and space. My sense of direction and even the sense of time vanish, engulfed in a cloudy mist under the moon’s enchanted light that softly filters through the kingdom. As if I were still in a dream, trapped at such a deep level of the unconscious that I can no longer distinguish what is real from what is not.

Abruptly, the pixie stops, takes a quick turn to the right and slips under the arch of another wing. It rocks strangely, almost as if it were injured. Looking up, I notice that the stone arch is encircled by a dense web of plants I’ve never seen before. They’re tinged with red and edged in black, while the rest of the leaf is dark green. The pixie shrieks and whizzes away.

“Wait!”

Before I know it I’m running after the pixie up a flight of stairs that leads to a smooth white wood door with solid gold inlays at the end of the long hall. I swallow so hard that I feel pain in my throat. I’m well aware that what I’m doing is tremendously dangerous... and I also know that I have no other choice.

The moment I see the pixie staggering in mid-air towards the lock and opening the door from the inside for me, I can no longer back out.

I postpone my freedom for another day and embrace my destiny.

The room is bright, so much so that for a second I think dawn has already risen. Then my eyes adjust to the light, and I realize that it’s just a reflection produced by dozens of magnificent sparkling jewels, shimmering silver, gold coins and gems, collected inside beautiful gold-rimmed cases.

It’s quite a lovely place.

The few jewels present are graceful, splendid and so elegant as to appear almost surreal.

The room is neat but doesn’t smell of woods and flowers like the rest of the kingdom. It seems that it has been uninhabited for centuries, closed to the world, and yet, at the center of that golden mirage stands a pedestal that supports a casket with the seven white gems. Someone was here recently, probably the king.

I approach the casket tentatively. I raise a hand hesitantly, not daring to touch them. If anyone found me here right now… I’d lose my freedom, everything.

Still, despite the doubts and the strong desire to run back safely to my room, I hear the gems _singing_ for me… it’s both strange and scary. Theirs is an ancient and powerful melody, full of nostalgia for the past. My face is reflected on its every facet.

A crystalline hum captures my attention, diverting it from the singing. The pixie glow has turned milky and dull. Slowly, the little creature collapses to the ground and the radiance that animated it just seconds before goes out. There remains only a tiny human-shaped body, transparent and with a soft tuft of white hair on its small forehead.

I survey the glittering chamber, looking for anything that might have inflicted such damage on the pixie without my noticing. A hidden weapon? Is this a trap?

And then I understand: those leaves placed at the entrance must be poisonous for them.

With a sense of pain in my chest from the loss of that fairy and perfect creature, I stare back at the gems.

Beautiful stones with an ancient and unknown past… and undoubtedly the very fulcrum of this story. I need to understand...

A thundering thump shakes me from my torpor. The door swings open as if hit by a powerful gust of wind. Thranduil, Legolas and four guards armed with threatengly spears and bows, storm inside the room.

The king’s face is unrecognizable: furious, an implacable death sentence.

“It’s not what it looks like...” I whisper, and then I realize. “You had me followed!” I know that I have no right to feel betrayed, since they caught me with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar, and yet it is so.

“Did you really believe that I would let you wander around my kingdom without adequate supervision?” Thranduil replies in an angry and venomously mocking tone. “And here we are. I always suspected you were hiding something. Do you crave my treasures to the point of being willing to die for them?”

“The pixies brought me here! I’ve seen them since I’ve been in Woodland Realm!” I point to the poor creature’s body – I have no idea if pixies are good or bad, but this delicate little being, with no more light to illuminate it, appears terribly weak and defenseless.

Both Thranduil and Legolas observe the pixie with disbelieving and suspicious expressions.

“I had very strange dreams about these gems… incredibly vivid dreams. I don’t crave your treasure. I yearn for answers on why I keep dreaming about them.”

He glares at me with open hostility. “And you assume I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt on the basis of these despicable lies? You have no more excuses, it’s completely useless to keep lying. You broke in here just like the thief you are, under the noses of my guards!”

I’m suddenly overcome with anger. Why does he always have to question everything I say? Why can’t he just _listen_ for once?

“I talked to Tauriel about it,” I burst out, before I realize what I’m doing. “Do you think that if she had doubted my words she would have kept the secret? With you, with her king? Admit it: you feel victorious because you’ve always suspected I was guilty and this misunderstanding serves as your definitive proof!”

Legolas raises his eyes, startled. “Is Tauriel aware of all this?” From his contrite tone it’s easy to tell that he feels betrayed.

The thought that Tauriel might get in trouble because of me makes me sick. “No! She’s not a traitor! It was all my idea! She didn’t understand the nature of my problem as much as I did.” I evaluate the gems carefully. “It’s terribly difficult to explain… to interpret something so elusive… A legend always has a grain of truth. What if _it is_ true? If it were real?”

Am I wrong, or do my eyebrows appear slightly more pointed in the reflection, as do my ears?

Thranduil raises his gleaming eyes. My confused words sparked his interest, an interest that cannot compete with anger. “The white gems… why are you so attracted to them? What are you? A thief, after all? Someone persuaded you to steal them?”

“I’m not a thief!” I can’t believe it, I’m defending myself _again_ against the same groundless accusation that had thrown me into that absurd situation in the first place!

The sound of the gems whipped by the invisible current reaches me with the delicacy of a feather endowed with the gift of singing. It rests on my skin, covering me entirely, wrapping me in a burning embrace of light and velvet. Their voice is a harmonious and sublime choir. In the midst of the many delightful folds, I catch Sister Auress’s voice.

“They’re calling me. I don’t know why and I don’t know how, but it’s true.” A smile slowly spreads across my lips. “If only you could hear them! I’ve never heard such exquisite and enchanting voices before. In the melody I can almost interpret what they murmur. It’s an ancient, potent language.”

“What are you babbling about?” Legolas snaps at me.

My smile fades little by little as I look up at Thranduil. “You know, don’t you?”

Thranduil returns my gaze for a full minute. In his face – expressive for the first time – I read incredulity, hesitation and a strong inner torment.

I take advantage of this brief moment to give free rein to a command that I have long wanted to shout with all the breath in my body.

“ _Ani lerya!_ ” _Let me go!_

With a swift, lightning movement Thranduil draws his sword and points it at my throat. I feel the cold metal, smooth as water and sharper than I could ever express in words, prick my skin. Backing off for an instinctive reflex, I lean on the gold pedestal behind me and rest my hands on the casket.

“What are you talking about?” Legolas asks, mordant.

Thranduil does not respond. He just stares at me in cold livid fury, taking his time to slowly sink the blade into my flesh.

I’m terrified, but also excited. I’m about to get my answers, I can feel it. One way or another, this story will end tonight.

“They weren’t always seven, were they?” I murmur almost thoughtfully, and I see his eyes light up, inflame. “That’s why you wanted these gems at all costs. The reason you waged war on my people. The reason you felt the need to punish me, even though you knew it wasn’t me who committed the theft.”

Too dismayed to kill me instantly, he just raises the sword a little more.

“They are significant to you... because they were important to _her_.”

At that point Legolas undertsands and opens his eyes wide. There is only one plausible answer. His gaze flickers from my face to his father’s. “ _Ada?_ ”

Thranduil is petrified, a beautiful statue anchored to the ground.

A familiar hum fills the air out of nowhere. I look around, searching for its origin.

Thranduil looks up at the ceiling. Legolas reaches out to his quiver, his face tense. The guards hold the hilt of their swords, taking up positions around the king and the prince.

The humming stops abruptly, leaving a deafening bubble of silence.

Then a wave of incandescent pixies – hundreds, perhaps thousands – pour into the room, slipping out of the microscopic cracks in the branchy walls and ceiling. They instantly surround me, forming a protective cocoon around me.

Their body heat is pungent, intense, even painful. I feel like I am wrapped in the sun, and it’s _not_ a pleasant feeling.

As they press all together against the ceiling, like a giant hand of white fire, and the first stones start to fall, I hear another sound, much higher and much more alarming: it takes me a moment too long to realize it’s my own voice. I am screaming. Searing pangs leave red marks on my skin, while the pixies put pressure around my limbs until they break through the high ceiling.

An arrow crosses the globe of light that surrounds me and pierces two pixies, which fall to the ground with a sad and dull thud.

Despite Thranduil’s command, Legolas doesn’t make a second attempt.

A sudden wave of fresh air slightly relieves my impression of burning alive inside that blinding blazing light; their heat suffocates me, their fire consumes me.

Against all odds or foolish hope, Thranduil lunges forward and grabs me by the arm. I come to my senses, opening my eyes wide and breathing in a hot mouthful that burns my throat. The pixies resist and pull in the opposite direction. I feel torn apart.

My hand slips quickly from his long fingers.

The last thing I see, a moment before the pixies take off with me and the casket, is Thranduil’s iridescent gaze.

Ironically, the last goodbye I give it to the person I think I hate most in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope the Elvish translations are correct! In case anyone notices that they are not, please tell me. :)


	12. The Seventh White Star and the Eighth

I must have lost consciousness, I think dazed, bothered by the feeling of cold against my side and cheek.

I’m lying on hard, ice-smooth ground, and I’ve no idea how I got here. Did the pixies manage somewhow to carry both me and the casket? How far?

I open my eyes, slowly.

The landscape is desolate, daunting. The only things visible are the distant peaks of jagged mountains, dark against the starry mantle, and rare flakes of snow shaken by the rushing wind. A wind that, bizarre as it may be, I don’t feel clawing my skin.

More than know it, I sense that I am standing on the phantom peak of my dreams. The difference is that this time I’m not dreaming, the background is absolutely real. I recognize the four white columns, two arranged to form a sort of door on the steep rock, and the shiny black stone altar in the exact center of the snowy peak.

The gems now lie in the empty basin, the small gold casket has been casually thrown away in the snow.

Surprisingly, the air is warm and still. The protective barrier that envelops this place like a cocoon must keep the mountain warm, protected from the natural elements that agitate the rest of the world. The air is odorless and the sounds are deaf, muffled. The barrier protects us from the freezing winter, but also isolates us.

As in my dreams, the Phantom Peak is massive and irregular, the white peak sprinkled with ethereal blue reflections. The Seven Sisters are all there, gathered around an ember of bright black stones. They’re beautiful, marmoreal like statues. They wear iridescent garments of a bright white and their long hair floats in the wind like the light feathered cloak of a bird. Their bright eyes range from silver, to green and gold. The pointed ears and elven features do not diminish even a bit the immense aura of power that surrounds them like a second skin of pure lunar energy.

The flight must have taken a couple of hours. The sky’s still dark and the horizon is tinged with dark purple and red-orange clouds. Dawn is just an hour away. The portion of sky above us instead is very dark, crowded with stormy clouds.

I feel a little numb from the cold, but I’m not hurt and all things considered I’m fine.

I stand up. My head’s spinning a little, but after a few minutes the dizziness vanishes.

Sister Auress is the first to introduce herself and meet me. Her hair, between gray and honey blonde, gathered at the nape of her neck, shines like a silver crown. Her young and at the same time ancient face is crossed by elegant wrinkles around the thin mouth and the translucent eyes. The pendant she wears around her neck almost seems to shine with its own light.

“ _Amatulyal!_ ”

It takes me a minute to understand that she just spoke in Sindarin. Another minute to remember the meaning of that word: _Welcome!_

Disoriented, I reply: “ _Mi van me?_ ” Where are we?

She slightly tilts her head. “ _Pedig edhellen?_ ” You speak my language?

“ _Law bedin edhellen_.” No, I don’t speak your language.

She gives me a neutral, polite smile. “My name is Auress. Welcome to the very home of the Seventh White Star. Take your time. There is no rush.”

I’m not sure what to do, what to say. I’m finally here. I have so many questions...

As if she’d read my mind, Sister Auress’ smile softens. “It always starts with a question and an answer.”

Instead of starting with a question, a statement escapes my lips: “Thranduil will find me.”

Her eyes glow with a sharp flame. She nods with another flat smile. “I don’t doubt it. But we still have some time before this happens.” She raises her thin eyebrows. “Personally, I find your belief that he’s looking for you much more alarming. Do you trust the man who put you in chains and separated you from your family?” It sounds a lot like an accusation.

I don’t even know why I said that. I just know that it’s true. That he will find me. “He didn’t put me in chains. And yes, I trust his blind obsession for those white gems.”

“Wise words.” She joins her slender hands and waits.

“Where are we?” I ask, glancing at the forest that winds like a snake’s tail down the valley.

“This place has been called in many ways. It’s been the core of elven magic for several centuries. It has a name among your people too, doesn’t it?”

I nod. “Phantom Peak.”

“An inappropriate name, as it is highly visible from hundreds of miles away.”

“In Rohandor this mountain is visible only under the light of the full moon and dawn. Between one and the other it remains completely invisible, hidden by the thick blanket of clouds and fog that envelop its summit.”

I take a peek at the other Sisters. They’re motionless, and I realize that despite the apparent indifference they’re listening to our exchange, as if they’ve been waiting for it to happen for some time. It’s probably so.

“Why am I here?” I urge.

Sister Auress takes a small step in my direction. “First of all, I want to tell you that I feel sincere remorse knowing that I’ve contributed to give birth to many of your misfortunes. But it was time for us to meet, at last. Fate, Rellél of Thorneye, brought you here tonight.”

“Do not fear. Your deeds have a valid explanation, young maiden,” she continues.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I retort, feeling uneasy.

Her smile grows sweeter and sympathetic, as if she were conversing with a proud child, pointing her toes. I’m not objective enough to say whether this is actually the case or not.

“Let me explain, then.” She takes another step forward. “You sacrificed yourself in that boy’s place by taking the blame for a theft you didn’t commit. A vituous gesture, done _with_ and _for_ love. As a result, this noble deed brought you in the presence of Thranduil, Lord of the Elves. You weren’t supposed to stay long in his kingdom, a meeting away from his lands was expected; the events changed abruptly, without any control. _You_ made them change. Thus, I had to force my hand a little. Through the use of old incantations I’ve been able to ensure that you remained in his kingdom the time necessary to clear up the future. Alas, I had absolutely no suspicion of Thranduil’s intentions. I couldn’t known he would punish you by locking you up in his prisons.”

“So it was, though,” I reply harshly.

Her face cools, losing any kind expression. “I needed to find the gems,” she says, just as harsh.

“Why? And how would you’ve forced your hand?”

“You know the legend that concerns us, Rellél daughter of Thorneye. You know what we can do. Foretelling the future allows us to change the events. It took very little to settle the matter in our favor. Of course, I didn’t expect you to mistake the pixies for hallucinations or even refuse to heed their call. The future is unpredictable and our power is weak: we’re can’t anticipate every single event with absolute precision or clarity as in the past. And your rebellious spirit is anything but taken for granted, my dear.”

A powerful knock against the protective shield makes my bones vibrate under my skin.

“What was it?” I yell.

Her face is placid, calm. “The Wind Giants protect this place, they preserve it from the dangers that could disturb our rest. Unlike their stone brothers, they’re completely harmless. Just a bit temperamental, fidgety. As long as they’re not forced to take action in order to defend us, they’re almost amiable creatures.”

Vaguely, inside the wind spirals, I recognize the contours of a shapeless face.

“Was it you who sent the half-troll to kill me?”

Sister Auress shakes her head in disgust. “I am not your enemy. You will find the enemy when you return to Rohandor.”

“What do you mean? You know who’s responsible?”

She doesn’t respond. She just looks at me with detachment, ethereal and distant as a cold star.

I sigh softly and deeply. “Well, at least answer this: what bond unites me to those gems?”

“I’ll answer this question, my dear. But let me start from the beginning.”

At her signal, the other Sisters gather around the altar, join their hands and begin to chant a sweet harmonious melody in a low voice.

“In the First Age wars were interminable. A spark turned into flame with the same ease with which a leaf falls from a tree. The dead were innumerable, the cost of those lives simply incalculable. Domination and power prevailed and oppressed the natural evolution of all things.

“The kingdom of the elves, unlike the others, refrained from the bloody battles which, like a contagious disease, spread through the lands of this world, devastating the nature they worshipped and attracting only terrible catastrophes; pride or honor could not be claimed in war. Still, even among our people the dead were numerous.

“It was decided then that the time had come to protect our people more effectively. The previous king consulted his best warrior, Omeedeh, the first Sister of our circle, also known by the title of Seer. True enough, she boasted of possessing the unusual gift of foreseeing the future, and from this “gift” she drew her extraordinary skills in battle. She had acquired this talent after battling a horde of orcs on this very mountain. In the landslide caused by the fall of two orcs, a glittering white gem emerged on the surface like a comet buried deep in the icy heart of the mountain. When her blood bathed it, Omeedeh could see her enemy’s moves before he made them. In this way she was able to defeat the orcs and return triumphant to our people.

“The gift of foresight, from that day on, has been passed down to the first daughters born from Omeedeh’s womb. I am a direct descendant. Thanks to her accidental discovery, the White Sisters were born.”

My breath is turned into a white, opaque cloud. I was so immersed in the story that I completely forgot where I am.

“Eight gems were recovered from this mountain, the tallest mountain in Middle-earth. Eight gems, eight sisters. According to some legends, the white gems are stars fallen from the sky.” She smiles, dismissing those legends. “In fact, all white gems have one thing in common: their power is neither evil nor benevolent, it absorbs and attracts only what can increase their strength. Many have been driven mad by them. Many mortals have squandered their power by using it for their own purposes, being consumed by it. We’re no different. However, being immortal creatures, we were able to resist their dreadful spell longer than anyone else.

“Through a spell we were linked to gems for eternity. For a while, peace reigned in Arda. But it wasn’t destined to last.” Her face gets stained with a dark and heavy shadow as memories fall upon her, annihilating her innate light, unleashing the darkness trapped underneath. “The enemies soon became aware of our gift. We protected ourselves and our people to the best of our ability, as long as we could. Unsuccessfully. We abstained from war and worshipped peace, but peace did not worship us. Here, on this very peak, around the onyx altar given to us by Erebor, we created our visions and brought them back to a messenger. This was our duty. Nothing more, nothing less.

“When the last of our sisters became queen, we lost our powers and consequently our role in this world. The history of our magic was clear: with eight of us it had begun, with eight of us it should have ended to keep our powers intact; the remaining descendants of Omeedeh. Otherwise, we would’ve continued to catch glimpses of the future without being able to do anything to prevent the events from happening. Like peeking through a door ajar without seeing anything but vague patterns and hearing the screams.”

It seems awful. Really. For a moment, I wonder what I’d feel if I knew that something horrible is bound to happen despite my best efforts, realizing that I can do absolutely nothing to prevent it.

When Rohandor and Mord-Een had threatened to wage war against the Elves, I had done everything I could to get in the way and stop the revolt. I know exactly what it means to fight for peace and feel helpless in the face of war.

A detail that escaped my attention pinches my mind, tickling my fingertips. I frown. “Eight Sisters, you said. There are only seven of you. Where is the eighth?”

Her flat, calm smile fades, replaced by a scowl. “There were eight of us. Not seven. But the eighth betrayed us. She chose romantic love to her lineage, she rejected our cause. The legend does not speak of her since her gem remained unused for a very long time.”

Everything becomes clear as her words keep weaving the memories of an unknown past. I can almost see it, as if I were witnessing those happenings in first person.

“Disgrace was upon us.” Her sigh is heavy, stone beaten by the wind, iron enveloped in fire and forged with water. “Even without the help of the eighth, we found a way to anchor our powers to the kindred spirits, hence preserving what little strength we had left. We held out for centuries. Galadriel was with us. Everything was fine. Until the day we discovered that our ancient enemies, far from forgetting us, were hunting us down with the most unlikely of allies: Sauron.”

Just hearing the name of the one whom no one speaks about, I feel startled and flinch.

“Our power, although incomplete, was the only light that prevented darkness from prevailing. Sauron was close to being defeated, and yet he _craved_ , hungry and thirsty in the shadow of the One. We were an obstacle, perhaps the first that would lead the world towards a chain of events that end in Mordor. We were the obstacle that had to be eradicated!

“Since it was almost impossible to face us when we were together, they attacked us separately. They massacred our kindred spirits. They killed them all.” Her voice becomes heavy and faint, deeply perturbed. Full of pain. “To punish us, to warn us that they were not too far, they disfigured Sister Ineleth.” My eyes automatically run to the elf with the scar, next to Sister Hilmelthel. They both glow with pure diamond light. Her beauty, despite the scarring, is beyond comparison.

“They deprived us of much of our power. We were forgotten, abandoned. Even the great Elvenking, Thranduil son of Oropher, turned his back on us. _Coward!_ ”

I wince.

“Galadriel was the only one willing to help us. She revealed us that the only way to make sure Sauron couldn’t get hold of our archaic power was... to get rid of it. And so the eighth returned to us.

“No one in the entire Arda had the right characteristics to become her kindred spirit. Galadriel, with the help of the Blue Wizards, created a spell of life and death – Gandalf the Gray was not with us. _He_ or _she_ should have completed the circle of kindred spirits, allowing us to imprison our power, annihilate it and protect it from Sauron. We just had to resist and wait. The time would come.

“And here, my dear girl, is where you come in.”

I don’t know where to look or what to say. My past, a past that even precedes my conception, comes to life before my eyes without my being able to do anything to stop or deny it. To defend myself from the suffering I know it will inflict on me.

I’m sure of just one thing: I’ll never be the same after this night.

Sister Auress goes on, unaware or perhaps heedless of my turmoil. “A long time ago, yes, there were eight of us. We were known as Auress, Braernith, Orien, Ineleth, Himelthel, Esgalwathel, Silgwedh, and…”

There was no need to finish the sentence. The last sister had been the queen of the Elves.

“Thranduil’s wife,” I finish in her place.

She nods gravely. “When she died our power perished with her. Our visions ceased and consequently the wars resumed more violent and terrible than ever.” Her gaze, for a moment, appears lost in the distance. “Thranduil has always been a conservative. He preserves the boundaries of his lands while ignoring the fate of all others. Why should he hold out his hand when only a few of us are from Mirkwood and most are from Rivendell? He’d forsaken us, stating that our uselessness had been our ruin, our homelessness our burden, and the misfortune we had brought upon our people our curse. I suspect his reasons were far less noble and more selfish: he wouldn’t have tolerated his beloved joining us and our adverse destiny. So he excluded us, he forgot us.

“When she died his hatred grew out of all proportion. He turned away from us. But we didn’t know… we had no idea what danger she was in. We would’ve rushed to help her! If she’d been with us, Gundabad would now be a distant memory! If we’d stayed together, united, our power would be restored and intact!”

I shake my head. “I don’t understand. What does all this have to do with me?”

Her liquid steel eyes return to scrutinize me. “Another clause of the White Spell required us to have counterweights. We couldn’t handle such great magic, a magic we couldn’t even fully comprehend. Only the blood of Omeedeh the Seer had managed to ignite the flame hidden in the seven gems of this sacred place, never again such an event had occurred. Some speculated that it was because of her lineage, considering that she’d consecrated herself from a young age to the Moon, in ancient times considered a very powerful symbol of womanhood.

“Our ancestors studied the power of the gems for decades, alas with little success. Omeedeh’s blood combined with starlight and moonlight allowed the magic of the gems to activate and flourish. We and a few other “alleged” heirs of Omeedeh were tested. Many didn’t survive. They were harsh, cruel trials. The eight of us passed them all, one after the other, and joined the circle. I was the first after Omeedeh, Thranduil’s wife was the last.

“Counterweights are rare creatures, our kindred spirits. By kindred spirit we mean that soul born on our same day, same month and at the same time, under the same celestial vault. Few have them and hardly anyone knows anything about it. It took us an almost infinite time to find ours. Each of us first had to work to create our own personal bond with the white gems. An inseparable bond. We needed to anchor our spirits to our soulmates. We all had one. An elf, a dwarf, a centaur, a shapeshifter, a warlock, even an Ent… and, eventually, a mortal.”

I blink, feeling dizzy.

Her face trembles with pain. “They’re all dead, I’m afraid. The only survivor is you.” She touches the pendant with her thin fingers.

I stare at the bright glow of the necklace, overwhelmed by emotions. “Who did you lose?”

She makes a sad, torn smile. “My daughter. By an unfortunate coincidence, or fate, she was born at the same instant I was born, the same day, in the same month, under the same star alignment... At first I didn’t want her to follow me in this life. But she was so brave, braver than me, and deeply devoted to our cause. As soon as the spell was broken they were targeted by Sauron’s last enemies and allies. Anyone who hated us for profiting from our predictions, even for stopping the onset of a single war, found their revenge in their death. Since that day we live here, trapped, forced into the past. But not for much longer.” She throws a meaningful look to the gems.

“It can’t possibly be me,” I say in a broken voice, my heart and mind both eroded. “I was born thousands of years after her death. I can’t be her kindred spirit.”

“Yours is a very special case indeed. Unique. The deal was struck with your family, the Thorneyes. We knew that only you could counterbalance her, as we predicted your birth ages before it happened. These gems are invaluable to you too, Rellél. For greedy hearts, their value is only and purely external.”

“What do you mean? What does my family have to do with this?” I can’t keep the tension at bay anymore. My hands are shaking.

She raises her sparkling eyes, suddenly rough and austere. Solemn. “The Thorneyes were renowned for making convenient deals with anyone who could guarantee fame and prosperity to their family. Their reputation as diplomats, treasure hunters and skilled traders was well known throughout Rohan and beyond. After the fall of Rohan’s king, a close friend of Viscantìn Thorneye, your ancestors found refuge in the mountains that separate Rohan’s borders from Rhovanion’s. Part of the Old People followed them, out of devotion and loyalty. Thus was born Rohandor, a small town that grew quickly, largely through agriculture, as it is known today.

“It pains me to say that you, my dear child, turned out to be just one more pact for that family so accustomed to selling and earning through unbreakable contracts.”

“I don’t understand how,” I whisper, my head spinning.

“Your parents would have acted as a counterweight in anticipation of your coming. It wasn’t the same thing, of course, the power was so precarious, barely existing... but another horrible war was knocking on our doors; we couldn’t wait. Your birth was decided and determined even before the defeat of Sauron.”

“I don’t believe it... It’s impossible.”

“I’m sorry, child. Terrible and… unforgivable things… are done for the right reasons.”

And, unexpectedly, I understood. I really understood. Though it ruined everything.

“Why would anyone want me dead?” I ask in a whisper as faint as a ripple of wind.

“As I said, Thorneyes’ talent for striking good deals was notorious. They’d accumulated treasures unknown to many, they were formidable relic hunters. They still had too much to gain and much to give in return. Viscantìn Thorneye was cunning and greedy, a dangerous combination. He exploited greatly from each and every sale, and priceless profits from every single earning. Your family’s wealth is legendary, and it’s not necessarily a good thing. Few Thorneyes were pure and courageous hearts, as most of them preferred to _hoard_ rather than _bestow_. They used to say: “A pact is a pact”. “

Our family’s motto came to my mind, the one engraved in the frame of the painting depicting Viscantìn Thorneye: “A pact is a pact, if you break it, it’s checkmate, that’s a fact”.

Barely realizing it, I start screaming. “My birth was not decided on the basis of this! Of a sleazy pact! My parents wanted me!”

“I can see how insensitive it may appear to you…”

I feel my eyes swollen with tears. “Why didn’t you break the deal after the spell was broken?”

“We’d lost everything, everything. A sister, our counterweights... a daughter.” Her thin lips quiver. “The gems were still imbued with magic and they could prove highly dangerous to corruptible hearts. You see, they had the power to make souls greedy, prone to the desire to reign over all, covetous, jealous, gluttonous and obsessed with the treasures buried deep in the earth. They were twins of a larger star, hidden in the core of an ancient mountain, a treasure that I hope will never be recovered. They possessed – they possess – the same curse, a curse that cannot taint a pure heart full of good hopes, content. But even among our people there are greedy hearts. We couldn’t allow Thranduil to find them, even if they are his last memory of _her_.”

I shake my head. “He will never give up. He’ll do anything to get them back, anything.”

“He _will_ get them back. As soon as we’ve eradicated the curse that impregnates them and annulled their power.” She glances at her sisters gathered around the black stone altar, still intent on chanting in a melodic and ancient language. “I’m afraid our king hasn’t yet understood what the real treasure is in this world.” She brushes the pendant. “But he will. And maybe that day he’ll look at the world, and above all at the past, with different eyes.”

“But why lure me here? Only to tell me your truth and bring the gems to you?”

Her bright eyes dart in my direction. “Your journey isn’t over yet, Roseshel of Thorneye. Your path is full of thorns, of traitors hidden in the dark. You’re going to lose a lot more than you can imagine, but you will also be _free_. Even if your heart will be denied what it desires the most.”

“I don’t understand…”

She gives me a maternal smile. “You will.” It sounds like a promise.

There’s so much to take in, so much to accept. I’m not sure I can handle this… emotional overload. I wonder if my face is still the usual easy-to-read mask, or a new face shaped by dismay and suffering.

“Thranduil will kill me,” I mutter.

“No, he won’t. Many believe that Thranduil is a vain and loveless man; truth to be told, he loved so much and profoundly that he could no longer even come close to that feeling. The proof is that _her name_ never touches his lips.” She looks at me. “However, he’s not a complete fool. You, in some way, remind him of her. Not only your appereance,” she gently caresses my black hair, “but also your heart. She was devoted to him, but she always contradicted him.”

I lower my eyes and frown. “Wait, just now... what did you call me?”

She smiles, without replying. “I wish you the best of luck, my brave dear girl. If you survive, your mortal existence will not have been wasted, and it’ll certainly never be the same.”

I wonder what that means. Whether it’s a blessing or a curse. But it doesn’t matter now. I’ll find out in any case.

The chant of the Sisters continues until the gems start to wither little by little, losing some of their shimmering aura. It is a barely perceptible change, yet evident: the energy that imbued them has faded, replaced by the common characteristics that distinguish precious gems. Collected next to each other, small and perfect, they form a sort of necklace inside the altar basin.

As I observe them, enraptured and almost hypnotized by the magical change that has just happened before my eyes, the gems explode in a last beam of blue light.

“It’s done,” Auress says with a long breath of relief.

I slowly lower my hands, blinking at the leaden reverberation of the approaching dawn.

In that moment we hear the roar of something in flight. The Wind Giants bellow and raise their invisible fists, unleashing a blast as powerful as a hurricane. Five giant eagles quickly approach the peak, dodging the giants’ blows with dexterity.

Thranduil sits astride the eagle in the middle, huge and pale as the first winter snow, with white, silver and golden plumage. Legolas, and Tauriel behind him, ride a dark eagle. On the other brown eagles, three soldiers on each guard the sides, cutting through the thundering gusts of wind in the brightened sky.

They land gracefully on the peak. The eagles, having fulfilled their task, resume flight towards the horizon.

I move closer to Sister Auress, getting stuck between one row and the other. I no longer know my place, or to whom I have to show a minimum of loyalty. Probably to neither. Only to myself.

It feels chilly all of the sudden. I reach out and find that, as dawn rises, the protective barrier disappears. That’s why the eagles passed over and through it so smoothly.

“Welcome, Thranduil son of Oropher,” Sister Auress speaks in an ice-smooth and equally cold tone. The Sisters lined up along the edge of the mountain behind her. “So, this is your son?” Her translucent eyes run over Legolas. “He’s grown.”

Legolas narrows his eyelids. “Do I know you?”

“I saw you open your eyes to the world, young prince.”

Confusion carves deep furrows on Legolas’ smooth white forehead.

Thranduil’s face is impassive. “The white gems... where are they?”

Auress points at the black altar.

He follows the direction of her finger and approaches to examine them. His eyes dart over the dull and sparkling contours, then his lips twitch. “Something’s different... What did you do?”

Sister Auress’s smile grows. “Do not fear. We have only deprived the gems of the spell ruiling them. Ruiling us.” She stares back at him. “As you can see, our intentions are as pure as ever.”

Thranduil in armor is even more imposing and menacing. More majestic and terrifying.

He approaches her, without even looking at me once. “Your _intentions_ have only brought death and disasters upon our people.”

Sister Auress holds his stare almost boldly. “ _Naw_ ”, she murmurs softly. “I was very young when your father ascended the throne. With time and great effort, I won the privilege of being called a ‘friend’ by Oropher. He was an unwise, unforgiving man. I felt almost relief when you dethroned him. And now I look at you and I only see his ghost, a man as sad and frozen as the heart of this mountain! Oropher was merciless and turned his back on anyone who brought nothing but trouble on his head! You’re just like him.” She hisses with disgust.

Thranduil stiffens abruptly. “ _Áva quetë!_ ” _Be silent!_

Out of the corner of my eye I glimpse Tauriel beckoning me to join her. I stumble in her direction, unable to actually move. If I step away now, would I be able to stop Thranduil’s sword before it pierces Sister Auress’s chest? Or Sister Auress’s dagger before it sinks into Thranduil’s throat?

Sister Auress grins placidly. “I do not respond to the orders of a man who’s not my king.”

Thranduil adds something in Sindarin that has the effect of paralyzing Sister Auress. I suspect he mentioned the death of her daughter, as she replies with extreme horror by throwing a sidelong glance at Legolas.

Auress roars, “We made an oath, centuries ago. We would always protect our history, our traditions! Even from _you_. Your wife had sworn with us!”

Thranduil stays silent for a long moment, his face blazing with livid and silent fury. Then he draws the sword with a fluid, swift movement.

“No!” I cry out, placing myself between them.

Thranduil lifts the hilt an instant before it sinks into _my_ chest. His gaze is intolerable, numb. Still, astounded. He didn’t expect me to have the nerve to get in his way. Honestly, I didn’t either.

“You can’t do it!” I shout with all the breath in my throat, keeping an eye, terrified, on the blade sparkling half an inch from my heart.

“I can. And I will.”

“No! I cannot stand by and watch as you…”

“Close your eyes, then,” he interrupts me, coldly.

“There’s no need for this. Let them go, I beg you. I’ll go back with you, I’ll submit to whatever punishment you deem necessary… but please, stop this madness.”

Sister Auress bursts out laughing – a sweet, gentle laugh – behind me. “Don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out yet! She is the _only_ one. _Her_ ghost. You can feel it, can’t you? _She’s memory_.”

“ _Ego!_ ” He thunders as he raises his sword once more.

“ _Nátyë necindo_ ,” Auress replies, harshly and ruthlessly.

“Enough!” I gasp.

“I should have wiped your memory from this world centuries ago,” Thranduil says, slow and inexorable.

“Do not fear. I will grant your wish.”

“What?” I ask, turning towards her, giving my back to Thranduil. Her tone alarmed me.

Sister Auress gives me a sad, tender look. She strokes me with her knuckles without really touching my skin. “You’re free now, Roseshel. _Be_ free.”

Something in my stomach is pulling in the opposite direction from the heart. A sudden laceration dripping with blood. I know what’s about to happen, and yet I cannot accept it.

Her face hardens. She utters an imperious cry, and the Sisters promptly draw their daggers from their belts.

The guards, Legolas and Tauriel react accordingly.

The Sisters turn the daggers upside down with a quick, neat movement, and stick them into their own chest. Their bodies fall to the ground as blood starts to flow.

I can sense Legolas’ shock, Tauriel’s dazed pain, Thranduil’s cold awareness.

Sister Auress answers me looking into my eyes: “It is time for us to reach our loved ones. We no longer belong in this world.”

“No, no! It can’t end like this!” Desperation cuts my voice. “Now that I know the truth… what is my place, if not with you? There’s still so much I don’t understand!”

Sister Auress slowly backs away towards the mountainside. I follow her.

“Your place, my dear Roseshel, is with the people you cherish and have protected so far. Don’t be afraid to love what you cannot understand. I have seen entire ages fall and rise in the light of dawn and in the waning twilight, ancient kingdoms sink into the sand and form the foundations of the world. If there’s one thing I have learned in all these centuries it’s that unanswered questions are what really drives us to _keep searching_. Life is not made up of certainties, of ‘visions’ engraved in stone. We can choose. We just need to have the courage _not_ to believe in destiny.”

“Auress…”

“Remember that. There is no discrimination where choice thrives.”

Slowly, with her eyes closed and a blissful smile on her lips, she falls into the void.

Without stopping to think, I jump in her direction.

Thranduil grabs me by the waist, restraining me. His arm underneath the armor is stronger than my sorrow and my despair. I feel the metal of his chest pressed against my back, as he prevents me from following Sister Auress into the abyss.

I don’t know how long my screams last, or how long my tears keep falling and wetting my cheeks. I only realize, some time later, that now it’s Legolas the one keeping me away from my insane desire to hold onto the only connection I ever had with my true and improbable origins.

In the meanwhile Thranduil walked away towards the altar and the gems. I don’t even spare a glance at him as I crawl to the edge of the mountain and look down.

I don’t see her body, any of their bodies.

Tauriel puts her arm around my shoulders, gently inviting me to follow her.

With her I don’t feel the need to object.

The eagles are recalled. The Wind Giants vanish with a sigh in the dawn light.

I feel Thranduil’s gaze pricking my neck, Legolas’ next to him. Tauriel helps me to climb onto the back of her brown eagle. I wrap my arms around her waist without hearing or seeing anything around me other than a desolate landscape.

We fly back to Woodland Realm.

If the pain slowly fades with each flap of the wings, the fear that my troubles are far from over, instead, spreads like a flock of thorny butterflies in my stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, after a painfully long revision, the last chapter of this year!!
> 
> Now: I believe Thranduil had his good reasons for banning the Sister’s circle. After all, the only version of the story truly narrated and explained is Auress’ one. Certainly he didn’t want to risk his beloved being captured and killed by Sauron’s minions; Sauron not only wanted to detroy their power, but also to use it for his own evil purposes.  
> And yes, the seven white gems in the movie would be the gems of the Seven Sisters, and to Thranduil they become even more precious after their death, and for this reason he wants them back, in memory of his wife.
> 
> Sindarin: Ego = Go away!  
> Nátyë necindo = You are without heart, heartless  
> Naw = It is so  
> Ada = Dad, daddy


	13. Released

It’s late morning when the eagles leave us on top of the sunken kingdom in the hollow beyond Mirkwood.

I’m exhausted and barely have the strength to stand on my feet. But I don’t want to extend my stay at Woodland Realm any longer. I need to return to my people, to clear my head.

Tauriel hugs me by the shoulders, as if afraid of seeing me collapse at any moment. Who knows how I look like. Horrible, I guess.

Thranduil leads us proudly and rigidly. In his hand he holds the refined black sack bordered with gold in which the gems rest. He ignores the rest of us and walks briskly into the throne hall.

“My lord,” Tauriel says urgently. “She’s weary. She needs rest.”

I’d like to protest, but I really don’t have the energy. The only thing I can think about is that my birth was decided through a stupid pact. Nothing that I’ve always believed to be true is real. My mother never loved me enough, and now I finally know the reason. Was my father’s benevolence sense of guilt? Did Fergus know? What was I but another selfish wish, another award for the Thorneyes?

“My lord!”

“Father,” Legolas insists in a calm but firm tone.

Thranduil stops, visibly unnerved. His icy profile is paler than usual, though unchanged. “One more day. At dawn tomorrow, Rellél of Thorneye will leave this kingdom and shall never return.”

I’m not at all surprised by the hostility in his voice. Or by his harsh sentence. I’m honestly too numb to pay proper attention.

Tauriel escorts me to my rooms.

I spend the afternoon and the long night that follows in bed, sleeping. In my confused, anguished and too colorful nightmares, I witness what happened on the mountain. In all versions it’s revealed that I am nothing more than the result of a pact made between the elves and Thorneye’s family, that my existence has no meaning or value. In all versions I look for a way to save Sister Auress, and fail every time. In all versions I see myself motionless on the edge of the Phantom Peak, next to the Elven Lord: Thranduil chases the gems, a tapering hand stretched out towards the indistinct diamond light that shines in front of us, moving further and further away. I call him back, to no avail. He continues to advance towards the incandescent light, while I fall into the darkness below and then finally wake up with a start.

A few hours before sunrise, I definitively give up the idea of closing my eyes again. I’ve been fidgeting all night and now I feel more tense and anxious than ever.

But, at least, I’ve decided that I don’t care. I don’t care if I’m the result of a pact and not the miracle I always thought I was. After all, thinking that way I was no less a narcissist than Thranduil. And I profoundly loathed the idea of having anything in common with him. Especially because I hated the weakness that had crept into my dreams, a weakness that concerned him.

I need to hear the truth spoken by my family’s voice. I need to understand who I am, who I have always been without my knowledge, and to come to terms with who I am today. Sister Auress had said that after that night I would be forced to face my last enemy. He or she who had sent the half-troll to kill me and had framed me with thievery.

So it just depended on me, on my future decisions.

Less than half an hour before dawn, I prepare to go home. It’s time to stop the war. No gems to recover, no premonitions. Only me. I hope it’ll be enough.

I take a long hot bath, clean my clothes thoroughly and wear them as a farewell; they are for slender, lithe elf-women, not for skinny, feeble mortal women. Yet I don’t want to part with them. I weave my hair like Tauriel did, adjusting the locks behind my head.

Tauriel… I know I have to say goodbye, but not now, I don’t think I can do it now.

I’m not at all surprised when, opening the door, I almost bump into a guard rigorously standing in the corridor.

I decide to take advantage of his presence here. After all, I owe it to him. If he hadn’t held me back while Sister Auress let herself fall into the void, unaware of my actions as I was, in all probability I would have followed her.

“Take me to your king,” I say.

This time our exchange (and final farewell) is held in a different, elegant and soft-colored cave, crossed by thin blades of golden light, next to a blue pool of water that gently sinks into the ground.

“No one leaves the kingdom without the king’s consent. I must consider myself lucky, then.” I don’t want to pretend to be someone I’m not. I’m rebellious, I’m curious, I’m stubborn… I’m many things. And I have certainly never been an admirer of the Elvenking. “Or offended?”

He turns slowly, granting me a distant look. Yes, _granting_ it, because Thranduil always seems to strive to grant a portion of his time and attention, and the interlocutor, in this case me, punctually ends up feeling out of place, uncomfortable.

Not this time. This time I’m prepared.

“I see you are in a hurry to get rid of me. I feel the same way,” I add resolutely.

His silence is eloquent.

“Anyway, I felt the need to apologize. I’m alive, thanks to you. I still wonder why you saved me…”

“Your gratitude is misplaced.”

I pursue my lips. “Obviously.”

He closes his eyes and releases a slow sigh. “You’re exasperating.”

I blink. _I_ am the one who’s exasperating?

Thranduil contemplates the faraway horizon, beyond the porous walls that enclose the cave. “Is that all?” He asks politely.

“I think so,” I reply, rocking on my heels. Since I’ve nothing more to add, and obviously he neither, I start to go back to where I came from.

His quiet voice reaches me like an impalpable gust of wind.

“By your reckless actions you have led me to the lost gems. Now they’re safe, in a place where no one will ever find them.”

I turn to look at him, surprised. The fact that he returns my gaze with courtesy, rather than with irritation and the usual cold and mocking frown, destabilizes me a little. Suddenly I don’t feel the need to be so much on the defensive anymore. Slowly, my tense posture melts away.

“May I ask what are you going to do with them?”

He keeps silent for a moment. “I will ask the dwarves of Erebor, masters in the art of tempering jewels, to forge a necklace in my honor – a jewel in memory of the past.”

I nod, the hint of a smile on my lips. “Sounds good to me.”

His iridescent eyes and silky hair shine like silver in the light of the rising sun. “The ancient burden that had long reigned on the shoulders of my people has finally dissolved.” He lifts his calm, lazy gaze to my face. “Who knows for what playful and lethal mockery of fate, all the reckless and impulsive actions you’ve made have ended up turning into something providentially useful. I wonder if yours is a gift or a curse.”

“The White Sisters weren’t a curse at all, Thranduil.” His eyes widen slighlty in amazement; he regains his ever-present composure right away. “They had good intentions and the means to act upon them. What happened... we can call it fate, or ill fortune. What has been has been, it no longer makes sense to question it.”

“Yet here you are, _Roseshel_. Alive and in perfect health,” he comments. “Few things have managed to surprise me in my long existence. Your survival is undoubtedly one of the list.”

I lift my chin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He walks, slowly, in my direction, measuring each step, dancing above the ground. “You’ve survived the accuse of thievery – which you didn’t commit, the imprisonment in Woodland Realm’s cells, the attempted assassination by the hand of a half-troll, even the kidnapping by a bunch of pixies… many unfortunates cannot boast of the same luck as you. You’re more unique than rare in this world, Roseshel.”

I blush and look down. “Why do you keep calling me that? It’s not my name.”

His gaze’s dense as honey, detached and remote like the moon. “Roseshel means ‘the flower that blooms in the mud’. Sister Auress must have considered it more… suitable for your person, I suppose.”

I stare at the toes of my boots. “I had no idea my name was Elvish.”

“It is not. Rellél is a word, not a name, in Sindarin.”

I look up. His face is smooth and inscrutable as usual, yet I catch a glimmer of awareness, or even compassion, in the crease of his thin lips.

“Why would my parents give me that name? They’re mortals... how ... What do you know that I don’t?” I can see it in his eyes.

“Have you ever wondered how your father could have you?”

I frown. “No, not really. Maybe the curse was just a fairy tale told to explain our family’s sterility. Four generations of Thorneye, and it all, as far as I know, started with my father’s father, Itzlin Thorneye. Maybe my mother compensated for the problem somehow.”

Thranduil lifts his eyes to the invisible line of the horizon. “In my experience, all curses have a pressure point. A weakness that, in some cases, can be used by us and for ourselves.”

“What do you mean?”

Thranduil looks back at me, mildly and intently. “The Thorneye family was ruined. Your father, as his father before him, needed an heir.”

I nod. “My brother.”

“Yes.”

“And me.”

Thranduil remains silent, giving me time to figure out the answer on my own.

Indeed, Walther and Greta needed a _male_ heir in order for the Thorneye lineage to survive – once famous and powerful, Rohandor’s founding family. I was the fruit of the second pact, perhaps even made under threat of the repercussions that the White Sisters would have unleashed on our family in case of refusal. They didn’t need another son, especially not a _daughter_.

It explains why my mother had always treated me as if I was a burden to her. That’s why my father harbored that docile weakness towards me: it wasn’t love, it was guilt.

My eyes burn. “My parents wanted me!”

Thranduil doesn’t flinch at my scream. “I’m sure that is true.”

_Liar._

“This is madness!”

“Is it really? Think about it: a male heir was all your father needed. Why another child? Why a _daughter_?”

I shake my head.

My father’s six brothers, also infertile, were all dead, some of illness, some of old age, some had perished in war. He was the youngest, the only survivor, as his father before him. He would need only one heir so that his line did not die with him. It was a disease. The Thorneyes, condemned to extinction since Viscantìn, did everything possible to survive, in order to permit to another generation to bring honor, wealth and memory to our family.

I shake my head again. “Are you suggesting that… I was the price? The condition set? The _pressure point_?”

Thranduil nods only once, relentlessly. “I’m sure of it.”

“The White Sisters would never have done that!”

His eyes flare with cold impatience. “Make a deal with your father to obtain a kindred spirit in exchange and thus complete the never-ending circle? To stop wars and death? They knew that your birth would put an end to their curse, Rellél the Last Thorn. They only had to persuade a terrified man to the idea of disappearing from this world without leaving a single trace or memory to have another heir. How difficult do you think it could have been?”

What’s that saying my mother always used to say? _It’s easy to convince a man to let himself drown if he has already sunk up to his neck in mud._

“I am not a mistake! I cannot be…”

Thranduil stifles a sigh. This time, however, I don’t lose my temper, since in his complacent eyes there is an authentic gentleness that I’ve never seen before.

“No. You’re not a mistake. Not for your father, for your mother or for your family.”

“Rellél the Last Thorn...”

Thranduil smiles: a cautious, barely hinted smile. “You know the story of your ancestor, Viscantìn Thorneye. In the battle against a herd of orcs from Mordor he stuck a poisonous thorn taken from the...” He pronounces an elvish word that has the sound of leaves torn by the wind. “They were thorns as big as swords; this plant is famous among my people, as in ancient and dark times it infested a large part of Mirkwood. Its poison was fierce, unforgiving and without antidote.” He turns his gaze on me. “It was known for its extraordinary resistance: each thorn pulled away immediately was replaced by another. If burned, but not reduced to ashes to its deep roots, it would grow back more thick and lethal than before. It was brought to extinction many moons ago.”

He narrows his eyes in my direction. “I don’t want that title,” I reply harshly.

“I don’t call you that,” he says.

Oh. Right. Among the elves I am now known as Roseshel. Moreover, _Rellél the Last Thorn_ seems almost an ironic epithet, a derogatory way of addressing the last heir of a ruined dynasty.

So who called me that? And why?

“When you return to Rohandor you will stop the current war.” This is not a question.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Yet you know what you’ll find waiting for you.”

I suddenly realize that he has shortened the distance between us. Not by much, just enough to make me quiver. I feel his warm, sweet breath on my cheek, and then on my lips. I find it too intimate, so I turn my head.

“Yes,” I repeat.

Barely three feet bewteen us, yet he has never been so close. It’s strange. It’s pleasant.

“Someone wants you dead, Roseshel,” he says, and I flinch. “And you have no idea who he is. It’s rather hazardous to go back knowing that a knife is hidden among a crowd of smiles and hands reaching out to welcome you.”

I wince. “I have no choice. Rohandor is my home. If danger has been able to follow me this far, it will follow me everywhere. I can’t run forever.”

“What’s your plan, then? Ask? Accuse without proof?” Now he almost seems to want to mock me.

“No. Whoever is responsible for this doesn’t expect me to return. A war is, conversely, expected indeed, and through the war the way to get the gems back. I don’t need a plan.”

His faintly bitter expression matches the hint of another small smile on his marble lips: a smile that’s only partially amused. “Because you don’t have any plan, do you?”

I narrow my eyes so as not to let anything pass through, except my chagrin. “You’re judging me, why? Because I want to do the right thing instead of closing my eyes and refusing to fight? I am not like that!”

“So, after all, you learned nothing!” He roars contemptuously. “Such is the blindness of a wounded heart, I wonder? You keep acting on it, Roseshel, and you keep failing. Someone wants you dead and it’s clear that they will stop at nothing to achieve their goal. Whoever is after you is not only interested in the gems: he also longs for your end.”

I swallow and clench my fists.

“Isn’t it enough to make you see that you need to act on a much more valid and precise strategy, rather than keep wandering with your hands stretched out in the dark?”

My lips tremble, so I press them together, flat, while I say: “ _Boe i ‘waen_.”

If he is surprised, he doesn’t show it.

I bow my head eloquently, respectfully. “Thank you for your infinite indulgence, Lord of the Elves.”

Thranduil keeps silent.

I turn my back to him with a new, unprecedented throb in my chest, a sense of longing that hurts me almost as much as my nostalgia for Rohandor.

His last words reach me as I’m walking towards the bridge that has led me down here.

“ _Ae boe i le eliathon, im tulithon_.”

I remain motionless, petrified against my will, for a long minute. I don’t know the exact significance of those words, and yet the meaning is clear to me.

I feel a new wave of heat coursing through my veins, straight into my heart, a very different kind of warmth compared to the one that sets me on fire whenever I’m around Quentin Beck. It’s the admiration for a distant and unattainable star, its pain, its very presence that arouses devotion. I didn’t think possibile that I could harbour these kind of feelings for someone, much less for the cold and vain king of another race, yet here I am, consumed by the tears that I’m desperately trying to repress.

I don’t turn around and keep walking until the tears that have escaped my control dry on my cheeks.

Once the hearing is over, I join Tauriel with renewed hope and sadness. The sky is clear of clouds, blue and bright. The winter upon us has not yet sweeped away the last spring flowers from the trees, or erased the sweet elixir of Woodland Realm from the air.

Tauriel is brushing the muzzle of a beautiful horse with a smooth, short and brown coat, already equipped with saddle and bridle.

“Beautiful,” I whisper, stroking the long soft muzzle with my fingers.

Tauriel smiles. “His name is Sûlroch. He’s fast as the wind. He will get you to Rohandor in less than half a day.” She hands me the bridle and I grab them with sure hands.

“I want to thank you, Tauriel. For everything. You’ve been my friend the whole way… I believe prejudices have clouded the hearts of both our peoples for way too long.”

“It is very fortunate that we did not fall victim to their infirmity then,” she replies.

A smile makes its way to my lips. “Yes, very fortunate indeed.”

As I mount the saddle, Tauriel comes closer and whispers so as not to be heard by the guards at the entrance.

“You are not left to yourself, Rellél. At the right time you’ll know what to do. And if you are ever in doubt, remember this: the same mistake will not be made twice.”

I frown. Before I can ask her what she means, Tauriel turns around and orders the guards to close the gates.

I’m out. I’m free.

Before heading into the forest with Sûlroch, I take one last look at Woodland Realm. The giant double blue doors are slowly sealing behind me, between the bridge, the river and Mirkwood. In front of me, the safe path trodden by the Wood-elves is now the only way forward.

Swift as lightning, the thick, lush foliage envelops me like a moist cocooc, swallowing me to its misty depth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Ae boe i le eliathon, im tulithon.” It means: If you should ever need my help, I will come. It is said by Galadriel to Gandalf.  
> I think of this as the romantic peak of the story, you know, the proof that there is something going on underneath the harsh words and obvious differences between Relle and Thranduil.  
> I always thought this quote was very romantic, a subtle and unbreakable promise, and I imagined it could represent a sort of friendly goodbye for the Elves, with a deep meaning shared only between individuals special to each other.
> 
> Sindarin: Boe i 'waen  
> English: Until next time we meet
> 
> P. S. “You’re exasperating.” The funniest thing Thranduil said so far. Lol.


End file.
